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^^^Mis^^^g^is^m^i^mmm^^^smsSmy 



Lilts on the Doric Lyre. 



LILTS 



ON THE 



DORIC LYRE 



A COLLECTION OF 



HUMOROUS POEMS AND VERSIFIED SKETCHES 



OF 



SCOTTISH MANNERS AND CHARACTER. 



BY 



ALEX. G. MURDOCH. . 



^^ Aiild chimes an'' auld rhymes 
Gar us think on atcld times.'''* 

Old Scotch Proverb. 



GLASGOW: 
A. F. SHARP & CO., ID ROYAL EXCHANGE SQUARE 

MDCCCLXXIII. 



^^- 



.w^ 






GIFT 
I5QL. JAMES S. D^!L^. 
^ JULY 26, 1944 






1 
I' 

V 






PREFACE. 



The phenomenon of a Scottish artizan challenging public 
attention by casting a poetic glove at the feet of criticism has 
long since lost the gloss of novelty. The ages repeat themselves ; 
and the restless wheel of life, which, in its infinite gry rations ■ 
casts up everything odd as well as common, periodically dis- 
covers to the eyes of men the unique side of literature — when, 
lo, from a shining spoke of the wheel, off leaps the working-man 
poet — cap in hand, and with a bundle of rhymes to the fore. 
Well, it seems a necessity that it should be so. Think ye not the 
swarthy brows of toil worthy of invigorating and appreciative 
song? And if the manhood of labour is to be sung at all, gifted 
with the requisite enthusiasism, the practical son of toil is surely 
the man to do it, and not the ideal outsider who indulges a 
remote and bird's-eye view of the restless activities of the modern 
workshop through a literary eye-glass, and esteems himself 
qualified to *'do up the business," forsooth. Not at all. Such 
artistic handling of the hammer won't do. In the lyric entitled 
"Breeks o' Hodden Grey," and elsewhere, I have drawn from 
the rich armouiy ot facts and daily experiences, such massive and 
glowing imagery as the factory, the dockyard, the forge, and the 
furnace afford ; and I feel proud to think that the fidelity of the 
pictures will appeal to hundreds of my fellow-workmen on the 
Clyde, and elsewhere. 

As a working-man, I frankly accept the destiny of toil as an 
honourable and enviable privilege, repudiating the effervescing 
gingerbeer oratory of the paid agent of Trades' Unionism, who 



enlarges on the wrongs and grievances affecting our social con- 
dition, which abuses, by the way, press so lightly on our senses 
that we have to be periodically reminded of their existence. 

In the selection and elaboration of themes, I have not meddled 
much with the romance of idealism. The whole book, in fact, 
is toned with a localism of sceneiy, incident, and character — 
peculiar, perhaps, to the condition of one who has never lived 
out of Glasgow a whole week in his life, and who honestly 
esteems the English rose as being only less beautiful than the 
Scotch thistle, and the blue skies of Italy the finest skies in the 
world — Scottish skies excepted. 

Finally, I dedicate my little book to the manly keeping of my 
brethren in toil, the engineers of the Clyde, assured that, if there 
is to be found therein, aught that reflects the intelligence, sturdy 
independence, and moral worth characteristic of our class, these 
rhymes shall neither be cursorily dismissed nor lie negligently 
unread. 

ALEX. G. MURDOCH. 
7 Campbellfield Street, 

Glasgow, May^ 1873. 



CONTENTS. 





PAGE 


Preface, 


V. 


THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE, 


I 


CANDLEMAS CHIMES and RENT-DAY 


RHYMES: 


The Flittin' Day, ... 


33 


The Hoose-Takm', 


37 


The Rent Day, 


42 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS : 




Be aye Brizzing Yont, 


47 


The Kirs'nen o' the Bairn, 


49 


The Fu' Wee Wiefikie, 


52 


Epistle to James Nerval , 


55 


Wee Toddlin' Breekums, 


57 


The Wee Drap o' Drink, 


61 


Epistle to John Young, ... 


64 


Blythe Johnny Maut, 


67 


The Wrang Side o' the Door, 


70 


The Brae o' Life, ... 


72 


Hech ! me, the Day, 


75 


Auld Johnny Shanks's Noddy, 


77 


The Wa'-gaun o' the Bard, 


7S 


LYRICAL PIECES : 




Breeks o' Hodden Grey, 


80 


Scotland's LaurelFd Three, 


83 



Minstrel Robin, 

Scotland an' Her Thistle-Tap, 

Habbie, the Laird, ... 

Willie 's the Waur o't, ... 



S5 
87 



91 



PAGE 



LYRICAL PIECES (Continued): 




Bring the Bodie Ben, 


93 


The Wife-Begunkit Man, 


... 95 


My Yowe an' my Lamb, ... 


96 


The Fireside Fecht, ... 


... 98 


The Minister Kiss'd the Cobbler's Wife, 


100 


Twa-Thirds Fou, 


... lOI 


Tibbie an' her Wee Drap Toddy. 


102 


Bothwell Brig, 


... 104 


Blighted Love, 


105 


SONNETS : 




Milton, ... 


107 


Mazzini, 


... 108 


Da\dd Gray, 


108 


James Little, ... 


... 109 


Town, versus^ Country, 


no 


Bamiockbum, 


... no 


The Hills— a Study, 


III 


Unrecorded Heroism, ... 


... Ill 


Anticipatory, 


112 



LILTS 



DORIC LYRE. 



o;<^o 



The Waukrife Lykewake. 



fHE rose-Hcht o' my younger time, 
Lies roun' me like a glow o' rhyme ; 
^^ My heart is fu' o' memories auld, 

An' sunny dreams o' Westerfauld — 

Auld Westerfauld, where Uncle Wattie, 
The Laird, beside the lum-cheek sat aye, 
An' tell'd, to a' the household roun', 
The last news o' the burgh toun — 

Hoo cattle shows an' markets gangit; 
An' wha was deid an' wha was hangit ; 
Wha's yarn was bocht, what wab's were clickin ; 
An' wha was fortune's foot-ba' kickin'. 

What unco folks had got to say, 
An' wha had rumbl'd doun the brae ; 
An hoo, 'tween Crififel Hills an' Stirling, 
The wheel o' kintra life was whirlin'. 

Sic cracks as thae were nichtly tauld 
In Uncle Wat's o' Westerfauld ; 
W' ither idle clish-ma-clash. 
Wad only gie the reader fash. 
a 



I LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Blythe Westerfauld in thir auld days, 
Stood gey faur up the Cathkin Braes : 
A farm-steid fu' o' kintra stir, 
Wi' acres braid o' rigg an' fur. 

Snug-placed, besouth a hill-side scaur. 
It safely bode the wintry war ; 
An' heard unharm'd the norland breeze, 
Stormin' the choral boughs o' trees. 

But when sweet Spring, the year's young child, 
Had leaved and daisied wood and wild. 
Was never spot more fair or sweet 
Flower-dappl'd by her sunlit feet. 

And when the Lady Summer deign'd 
To walk the furrows, golden-grained, 
A million fluted stalks held up 
For sunshine, each their rich grain-cup. 

But when old sun-brown'd Autumn strode 
Amid his gather'd sheaves, and rode 
The loaded harvest wain, and flung 
His richness, hearts and homes among ; 

And blew his horn o'er all the lands, 
While maidens, with brown arms and hands ; 
White-hooded to the dimpl'd chin. 
The scattered sheaflets gather'd in ; 

Then might you hear the voice of song, 
And careless jest, the whole day long 
The labour-freighted hours beguile, 
And thornless leave the crown of toil. 

Thus, as each dawn, with sword of light. 
Drove from the hills the dusks of night ; 
The swains from such sweet sleep arose, 
As only honest labour knows. 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 

The long rich grass beneath their feet ; 
The heavens above them bending sweet ; 
The cattle lowing on the leas ; 
The songs of birds, and streams, and trees ; 

Bright dawns, fair noons, and gorgeous falls 
Of eventide, by castle walls ; 
Noiseless, as when o'er fields of grass, 
The feet of fabled oreads pass. 

Lo ! wreath'd amid ancestral trees, 
Stirr'd by the immemorial breeze. 
Fair Castlemilk, at hand, appears, 
Ring'd with the sunsets of the years. 

There, Mary, ere her fate w^as seal'd 
On Langside's lost but gallant field, 
The night before the battle, slept. 
And brief faith with her Queenship kept. 

But range the Cathkin's breezy breast, 
And, lo ! in yellow sunshine drest, 
The mazy Clyde outspread for miles, 
With Glasgow's million'd stalks and tiles. 

Uprear'd, upon a hill of rocks. 
Behold the giant form of Knox ; 
With arm extended in rebuke — 
That arm 'neath which the nation shook ; 

The eye that neither swerv'd nor quail'd ; 
The heart with more than armour mail'd ; 
The kingly soul that boldly smote 
Priest-bondage to the death, God-wot ! 

And with the holy faith of Christ, 
Kept evermore abiding tryst. 
And still in solemn stone and lime, 
Frowns on the city's roar of crime. 



^ LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Exalt his name ! the valiant heart 
Who acted still the Christian's part ; 
Who oft, as in the lion's jaws, 
With '' dag and dagger " threatened was. 

And lying at the feet of him, 
The old Cathedral, grand and grim ; 
Whose solemn aisles and buttress'd walls, 
Eight hundred years of time enthralls. 

By sculptured shaft and altar-stair. 
The monks of old have worshipped there ; 
The voice of Knox these walls have heard ;: 
And Cromwell there his brow has bared. 

Oft with the hoarse and steely clang 
Of war, these solemn aisles have rang ; 
Where nov/ the kneeling form is seen. 
The spurr'd and booted step hath been. 

But now, no more for crowns or creeds, 
The rough old heart of Scotland bleeds ; 
Her people, knitted mind to mind. 
The golden chains of commerce bind. 

But see, faint-imaged on the eye, 
The old Cross Steeple spears the sky ; 
Around its base the roar of life — 
The throb and surge of business strife ; 

The battle-field of trade and arts ; 
The wrestling-ground of brains and hearts ; 
The throng'd arena, chariot-roU'd, 
Where merchant princes grapple gold. 

Enter the lists ! the bare-brow'd fight 
Awaits thee ; close with all thy might ; 
The thrilling toil of war's wild bliss, 
Claims sfuerdon less divine than this. 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 5 

The laurell'd ease of calm retreats 
May yield the soul inglorious sweets ; 
But nobler beats the heart that dares 
The thunder of our streets and squares. 

Better the brow enseam'd with thought, 
Than life's great fight of years unfought ; 
Better the toil enroughened hand, 
Than kid-gloved manhood, built on sand. 

Glasgow ! my native city ; thou 
That wear'st the sweat-drops on thy brow ; 
With bare chest heaving like the sea, 
How shall I speak or sing of thee ? 

Thou giant athlete of the west. 
Whose lungs of fire find never rest ; 
Where Labour, in the lanes and streets, 
The roar of daily toil repeats, 

And in the mighty yards and docks, 
Makes prayer to heaven with hammer strokes 
And rears fair palaces of stone. 
For other children than his own. 

Listen ! the travail takes thine ear. 
In solemn fancy ye may hear 
The stones and riven air repeat, 
The million'd throb of hearts and feet. 

And, lo ! by night, as in a dream 
Of ruined suns, the lighted gleam 
And flare of furnace-fires makes red 
The dusky stretch of clouds o'erhead. 

A hundred mouths of chequer'd light, 
Flouting the starry front of night, 
And hustling all the dreamy skies 
With labour's smoke-blurr'd panoplies. 



3 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

But when the dawn, with wheels of [light, 
Hath ridden down the ruined night ; 
Ascend the Cathkin's brow, and greet 
The city moaning at your feet. 

Or, northwards, stretch the eye to where 
The hills of Lennox, broad and bare, 
Their brows by lightnings rent and riven, 
Uplift their regal heads to heaven. 

Thence, like a seer, Benledi shrouds 
His head among the riven clouds, 
With other vassal hills, that bare 
Their foreheads to the eagles' stare. 

O'er chequered lands of holm and grange. 
Eastward, for miles the eye may range 
To where, against the dappl'd skies. 
The spires and towers of Bothwell rise. 

Those giant towers, that still sublime. 
Resist the crumbling touch of time ; 
O'er-ivied with the sombre haze. 
And fair romance of other days. 

Within whose court-yards, frequent-gleam'd 
The helms of warriors, foray-seam'd ; 
As home-rein'd steeds were proudly spurred 
Across the drawbridge, battle-blurr'd. 

And far beyond, the Pentlands drear 
Their giant length of hills uprear, 
With Arthur's Seat, whose rounded rim 
The distance dareth, dusk and dim. 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 

But, saftly, Muse ! the flicht divine 
Is no for hamely wings like thine ; 
Howe'er the great their lyres may twang, 
Keep thou the canny side o' sang. 

Now to my theme ! November's blast 
The drumlie skies had wide o'ercast ; 
The ploughman an' his usefu' graith, 
For days were oot o' harness baith. 

The win's were ravin' owre the braes. 
As whiles they rave in wintry days ; 
An' theekit stacks, the bangster blast 
Had shaken as 'twad them owre-cast. 

A chill lay on the wetted yird, 
An', on the vacant moorlands heard. 
The curlews melancholy cry 
Made lonelier the lonely sky. 

But mirker clouds had dimmed the eyes, 
An', lonlier than the lonely skies, 
The hearth and hearts of Westerfauld, 
By sorrow's clammy touch made cauld. 

Death had at last his claim insisted : 
Auld Uncle Wat was deid an' kisted ; 
Than wham, few bodies deid or leevin'. 
Had better richt to arle heaven. 

Auld Uncle W.at, the kindly laird, 
Death micht hae ta'en a thocht an' spared 
His ranks were surely scant o' worth, 
When he harl'd Wattie yont the yirth. 

Blythe, honest-hearted Uncle Wattie, 
The chair's noo empty where he sat aye ; 
An' wantin' him warl's win's blaw cauld, 
Across the hearth o' Westerfauld. 



8 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

The head, white wi' the snaws o' time, 
The heart, as warm an' rich as rhyme ; 
The furrow'd face, redeemed by smiles ; 
The genial crack, that ran for miles ; 

The rustic laugh, that rose in flood. 
And storm'd the heart wi' joyous blood ; 
The plaided hap o' auld war'l ways, 
The rich crack o' the langsyne days ; 

These a' were his, the genial laird. 

An' mony a dull hour he repair'd. 

The wecht o' years his steps micht bend — 

His heart was sunshine to the end. 

Thus, on the day the laird was kisted, 
A wheen o' his jamb freens insisted 
That they'd come stappin' yon't that nicht, 
An' hand the crack till mornin' licht. 

Amang them, wast came Pate Powsowdie, 
The deil for drams an' coggit crowdie ; 
The dominie, a Latin dabster; 
An' Wattie Withershins, the wabster. 

Auld blacksmith Rab, the jee-e'd bHnker — 
A drooth, but something o' a thinker — 
An' cockie-leekie, Tailor Charlie, 
Cam' cleekin' uphill, bricht an early. 

An' last o' a', ben'-leather Tammie, 
Wha jinkit aff an' on the dram, aye ; ' 
A wee carfufle o' a bodie, 
Wha kept the late laird leather-shod, aye. 

To hand the guidwife's heartie up, 
An' taste the lykewake bite and sup 
The sax sat doun ere yet the laird 
Was happit in the auld kirkyard. 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 

The guidwife, she the dram brang ben, 
Some ait cakes an' an auld cheese en' ; 
Syne, being geyan sair bestead, 
She, sabbin', crap awa to bed. 

The laird, yell mind, had twice been deid, 
An' twice had waukened oot the weed ; 
Death-dwams, he had a wizard airt in. 
But ^/iis time he was nail'd for certain. 

The bHnds were drawn, baith wast an' east, 
The plate o' saut laid on his briest ; 
An' cannilie, for fear o' scares, 
The cat was lickit up the stairs. 

The lookin'-gless was cover'd ower. 
Lest they micht catch an eerie glower 
O' some strange face reflected there, 
Wad gi'e their hameart hearts a scare. 

The aucht-day clock, the auld guidwife 
Had gotten frae her folks in Fife — 
Whilk a' their ups an' douns had shared. 
Since she first buckled wi' the laird — 

This nicht stood silent ben the spence. 
An' mark't what time the laird gaed hence— 
Jist on the eerie edge o' twa, 
The laird had quately crapt awa'. 

The corpse was lying but the hoose. 
The door o' whilk was standin' loose ; 
An' aye they gied the tither glower. 
An' drew their chairs a weeock ower. 

An' spak' o' deaths that late had been, 
An' some wad maybe hap, bedeen ; 
We a' had e'en to die, 'twas true. 
But death was thrang enough, the noo. 



lO LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Sae jist to gie their hearts a Hft, 
An' haud their loupin' nerves in tift, 
They cannilie put owre a dram, 
An' tied the crack on Leather Tarn. 

The reestit cobbler thocht a wee, 

A sairie lookin' face had he ; 

" This nicht," quo' he, '' o' weet an' win', 

Sic Hke I ance was wander'd in. 

Sae, bide ye, while I stievely tell 
The mishap me that nicht befel ; 
The stor)^, an' ye'll tak my aith, 
Tho' strange, is jist as true as death." 



THE COBBLER'S TALE; 
Or, The Fourteen Fingers o' the Deiu 

October's wat an' windy days 

Were whusslin owre the howms an' braes. 

When ae nicht, as the month grew late, 

An' burns an' sheughs were a' in spate ; 

The gowlin' storm, as in 'twad come. 

Cam boasting doun Kate Hyslop's lum, 

As I, that nicht, wi twa-three mair, 

Were haudin' a mirth-makin' there, 

An' sic an awfu' nicht o' win', 

Time seldom scores his note-book in. 

The fun gaed on till mie, then twa, 

The clock had sworn clean awa'. 

When, thinkin it was time to gang, 

My plaid I owre my shouthers flang, 

An' grup't my stick ; then, smooth or rough, 

I didna mind the road a snuff ; 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. n 

If ghaists or warlocks meddled me, 
My stick wad, maybe, help a wee ; 
The deil micht sook his muckle thoomb, 
I vvadna gie him roadside room. 

The nicht was dark ; nor mune nor star 
Blink't on the eesicht, near or far. 
I wasna hauf road up the braes. 
When, hech, my heid was in a craze. 
The road was lost, an' where to turn 
I kenn'd na, neither bush nor burn. 
Thocht I, as sures twa three's mak six, 
I'm neck-deep in an ugly fix, 
Twa mile, an' mair, to grope the road yet,. 
An' no a blink o' dawn abroad yet. 

When, wow, I e'ed a bonnie licht, 

Loup, loupin', thro' the darksome nicht; 

Thocht I, that's some ane on the road, 

An' on the nicht-airs loud hallo'd ; 

But as the eerie licht I near'd, 

It aye play'd dook, an' disappeared. 

Quo' I, " An' ye be elfin licht, 

I'll bauldly gie ye chase this nicht ; 

For water- wraith or fabled spunkie. 

When primed, I carena by, a drunkie." 

Sae, on it gaed, an' I spank'd after. 
When, clap ! a peal o' eldritch laughter 
The nicht-win's back upon me threw. 
An' gar'd my vera shank-banes grue ; 
An' the next moment, heels owre heid^ 
Lord ! I was lying a' ways glee'd. 
But when I gathered up mysel'. 
An' fand my heid as soun's a bell. 
Quo' I, '' An ye be deil or ghaist. 
Fair play ! a fae sood aye be faced. 



LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

Unfauld thysel ! frae bush or scaur 
Stap oot, an' gie me cross-stick war." 

I scarce had thus my challenge gied, 
When, swith, a bush flew owre my heid ; 
A boortree bush, wi' roots entire. 
An' lowin' like a heuch o' fire. 
Thinks I, noo, feelin geyan queer, 
An' wha flung that, I needna speir ; 
Auld Nick ! or may my tongue be harl'd ! 
Auld Nick it was, as sure's the warld ! 
Hard on my lee-staps he's been coastin', 
I hear him hint the hedges hoastin'; 
.An' sic a croighle o' a spit — 
His death, w^e'se live to hear o't yet. 

That I felt kind o' hauf-ways queer. 
An geyan zvee, ye needna spier ; 
But when I gat my breath, then — twang 
My swdrlin' stick I frae me flang, 
An aimed it at his auld beld pow. 
But, saut the deil's tail an ye dow ! 
The stick he grup't while birlin' past, 
An' backlins flang it fierce an' fast, 
Whilk, lichtin' warmly on my lug, 
Gied me a deevil o' a shug ; 
An' gar'd me claw, as gleg's a buckie. 
My chafts that erewhile werena yuckie. 

Bumbaz'd, an' mair than sober'd, quick 

I pickit up my stowfie stick, 

An' seeven black finger marks were on't, 

Baith geyan deeply singe't an' brunt — 

The whilk, I can attest on aith^ 

The number seeven, an' brunt stick, baith ; 

Whereby the deil, ye'U understan'. 

Has gat seeven finger on ilk han'. 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 13 

Whilk, aye, in life's uncertain game, 
Gies him the odds to carry hame. 
Haith ! wha wi' him wad dambrod play, 
Had better lang defer the day. 



" Hech, man !" quo' Blacksmith Rab ; *' my certic,- 
That nicht ye'd been uncommon heartie ; 
A wee thing breeds a wondrous trouble, 
When folks are gien to seein' double." 

Said Tailor Charlie, frae the nook, 
"That nicht Tam jist the trtitJi mistook." 
*' Come, noo," cried Tammie, " that'll dae ; 
Nae mair o't, lang Jaik-jag-the-flae." 

Said Wabster Wat, the clash to settle, 
'' That nicht the threed in Tammie's shuttle 
Gaed raivelling afif the pirn, my sang ! 
An' Tam wad wab it, richt or wTang." 

Quo' Sowdie Pate, " An' ye agree, 
We'se hear the Dominie a wee." 
The man o' lear his lang heid shook, 
An' look'd as solemn as a book. 

Quo' he, '' An' ye'U no think it wrang, 
I'll read ye owre a sairie sang ; 
My tale sail be, an' ye maun hae't, 
The flittin' o' auld aunty Kate." 



THE DOMINIE'S STORY ; 

Or, The Flittin' o' Auld Aunty Gartley. 

Auld Aunty Gartley, rest her banes ! 
The nicht she slipp't awa', 



14 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

Was chair'd beside oor auld lum-cheek — 

A wreath o' winter snaw ; 
The Book o' God lay on her knee, 

An' frae the haly Psalms, 
She waled a canny verse or twa, 

To soothe her moral qualms ; 
It wisna that she feared the blow, 

For in her young days twice't 
She'd been at death's untimely door, 

But lippen'd aye to Christ. 
^' An' noo, guid freens, I howp an' trust 

I binna be to blame, 
But, an' it please the Lord," quo' she, 

'* I'm wearying for hame." 

When just as she had spak the words, 

Oot on the laigh door-stap 
An oorie fit was heard to fa' ; 

An, syne, a solemn chap. 
Owre to the auld door-cheek I gaed ; 

But when the sneck I drew, 
A flowff o' wander'd win' cam in. 

An' wail'd the haill hoose through. 
An sowff'd roun' aunty's pillow'd held, 

Syne rumbl'd up the lum. 
Quo' she, '^ That weird win' warns me 

My time is near-han' come ; 
Yon candle lowe is film'd wi' death,. 

An' burns a dredgie flame ; 
But, an' it please the Lord, this nicht, 

I'd flit, an' e'en gang hame." 

Then a' the mair to comfort her. 

An' stey her heartie up. 
We waled some verse that airted her 

To haud the blessed grup. 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 15 

When a at ance the gusty cock, 

Oot in the auld kailyard, 
Ere yet the dawn had touch'd the hills, 

Untimeously was heard. 
■" Ay, ay," quo' Aunty, '' deed I'll come ; 

Noo, streik me in my bed. 
The waukit cord o' life wears thin, 

The riddle's near-han' read, 
For when the cock, at twal' o' nicht, 

Erects its scarlet kame, 
Tak' ye nae fear, there's some lane soul, 

Gaun to it's lang, lang hame. 

Then read me yet anither verse, 

An' snuff the crusie licht, 
The death-yirm gathers in my throat. 

An bleerit grows my sicht ;" 
An' as the chap o' twal was heard, 

Quo she, " It's maybe wrang, 
But I weary for his coming. 

An' his coming's lang, lang." 
When, sudden, on oor hearts an' ears, 

.A noise amang the delf 
Gard ilk ane cast a speerin' e'e, 

Up to the binmost shelf 
An' when we turned aboot ance mair, 

To catch her pairtin' sigh. 
The licht o' heaven lay on her face — 

The Lord himsel' stood bye ! 

When thus the Dominie, doun-sittin'. 
Had read them Aunty Gartley's flittin' ; 
Quo' he, '* An' 'twill be lang, I howp, 
Ere death gies us the backward cowp. 

But ere the deidly bow be bent, 
May we o' haly things tak' tent ; 



i6 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

An' cannilie endorse the name 
O' Him what flitted Aunty hame." 

Auld Wat, the Wabster, thocht a wee, 
An' drew his sleeve across his e'e; 
Said he, " I'll shelf that bonnie sang 
The ben thochts o' my heart amang. 

But bide ye, an' I here relate, 
The wa'gaun o' my ain wee Kate ; 
Whase cheeks were rosed wi' simmers seven. 
When she was stown to han'sel heaven." 



THE WABSTER'S TALE ; 
Or, The Wa'-Gaun o' Wee Kate, 

It was a sunny simmer morn. 

An' oor wee Kate for 'oors 
Had been aw^a' to Kenmuir woods. 

To gather babs o' flowers. 
But when the sun his golden broo. 

Had dippit in the sea, 
Oor lassie wander'd hame, bedeen, 

An' socht her mither's knee. 
*' Noo, where hae ye been a' the day, 

My bonnie, bonnie bairn } 
Your broo is like the lowin' coal, 

Your feet as blae as airn; 
A waukrife licht is in your e'e. 

My lassie ye're to blame ; 
Ye soodna roam the eerie woods. 

Nor stray sae far frae hame." 

The lassie she was put to bed 

An' aye her raivell'd words 
Were babblin' o' the streams an' flowers. 

An' chirp o' bonnie birds ; 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 17 

An' frae her sunny lips we learn'd, 

O' some sweet lady's care, 
Wha laid her on the lap o' dreams, 

An' kaim'd her yellow hair. 
Quo' oor guidwife, wi' sairie voice, 

'^ Guidman, I howp I'm wrang ; 
But waes ! I fear oor bonnie bairn, 

Will no be wi' us lang. 
For do ye mind auld Granny's words ? 

When bairns see orra dreams, 
An' angel han' has touch'd their eyes, 

An' this is what it seems." 

When twa three weeks had cruppen roun'. 

The rose-licht left her face ; 
The marvel o' her lips was gane. 

But no the sinless grace. 
An' aye, when dowie oot I gaed 

To work the weary loom. 
The shots I cuist seem raivell'd 

Like the tassels o' the broom ; 
Till, ae e'enin', in the gloamin', 

As I wander'd dowie hame, 
A sweet vision, like a sun-flaucht. 

For a moment o'er me came. 
An' I saw my sainted lassie 

Gangin' to the land o' rest, 
Wi' an angel-airm o' sunshine. 

Lying roun' her neck an' breast. 

Ere I had cuist my hodden coat, 

Or owre the door-step gaed, 
A tremblin' han', wi' waefu' fa*, 

Was on my shouthers laid ; 
An' wi' the tears on either cheek, 

Like blauds o' wintry rain, — 
B 



i8 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

" Oor bairnie," sichered oot the wife, 

" Is jist a moment ga7ie I " 
" I kenn'd it weel, guidwife," quo' I ; 

" For as I hameward cam, 
I beheld an angel lady, 

Leading hame oor dautit lamb. 
An' tho' the wa'-gaun o' oor bairn. 

May cost us mony a pang. 
To wish her frae the airms o' God 

Wad do the lassie wrang." 



When thus, wi' mony a sich an' wail, 
Auld Watt had sabb'd his sairie tale ; 
Said Blinker Rab, '^ Guid freens, I troo. 
We're in the way o' greetin', noo. 

*' But wi* your leave we'll turn the leaf, 
An' sneck the door a wee on grief ; 
A tale or twa frae Tailor Charlie, 
Wad spin the tap o' humour rarely. 

" Sae, lads, or ere we rise to flit, 
We'se hear anither story yet ; 
Oor tailor freen, I'm bauld to think, 
Sail hand oor hearts in tift a blink. 

Lang Charlie scratched his heid a wee : 
A tale was reamin' in his e'e — 
" Guid sirs," said he, " ae windy nicht 
I got an awsome kirkyard fricht." 

^* Let's heart, at ance," cried Sowdie Pate ; 
'"■ Let's hear the tale — the deil be quate ! 
For gif it's as I've heard, the win 
Will whussle eerie when it's dune." 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 19 

THE TAILOR'S TALE ; 
Or, The Kirkyard Colieshangie. 

December's mirky days were dune, 
The last nicht o' the year was gangin', 

As south I whussled 'neath the mune, 
To see at hame the New Year brang in. 

The stalks o' auld Sanct Mungo's toun, 
Jist three miles in my lee were lying ; 

An' I was briskly steerin' roun' 

By auld Cathcart, the win's defying. 

The nicht was dry, the mune was clear. 
But, whew, the blast was stiffly rairin ; 

A "wee hauf" held my heart in cheer, 
An' what was I for bogles cairin' ? 

Sae, boxin thro' the bangster win', 

I reached at length the auld kirkyairdie, 

Where mony a puir man's happit in, 
An' mony a kintra-side cock-lairdie. 

The mune was keekin' owre a cloud. 

As she wad fain cam' doun an' greet me ; 

When something ! hush ! as white's a shroud, 
Cam' stappin' owre the dyke to meet me. 

" The Guid keep me ! an' what are ye '^, 
An' wha can sich as you be seekin' } " 

" Come hither, freen, an' speak a wee ; 
Oor auld kirkyardie tak a keek in." 

'' Fegs, no," quo' I, '' I'm no sae daft ; 

I dinna like ye kirkyard gentry ; 
Ye're spun afif some uncannie waft ; 

Maybe some speerit watchin' sentry. 



LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

" Whae'er ye be, I'm no inclined 

To argie-bargie muckle wi' ye ; 
I'd rather ken ye snug confined, 

Where neither man nor gods wad see ye.** 

" Nae wraith am I," the spectre said ; 

** Nae wander'd ghaist, nor kirkyard sentry ; 
I'm what you folks ca' deid. My bed 

Is owre amang yon gravest ane gentry/^ 

" Deid ! did ye say," I cried, and lap 
A foot or mair abune my standin' ; 

*' Guid help us ! ye're an eerie chap. 
To clap your luif a stranger's hand in. 

^' But, an ye're no on mischief bent, 
But freenly, then the odds are little 

Whether 'mang leevin' folks ye' re kent, 
Or cough a mouldie kirkyaird spittle." 

*' I'm honest, lad ; nae ill's wi' me ; 

I'm jist a rale weel-daein' speerit ; 
Come owre the graveyaird wa' a wee." 

" Na, na," quo' I, " I'm no deleerit. 

**An', noo, guid-nicht, an' mony thanks. 
For I maun yon't the gaet be spankin." 

The spectre straik'd its beardless branks, 
''An' hae ye, then, forgot Tarn Rankin.?" 

'^ Tam Rankin ! 'od, an' is it you } 

Then I'se gang owre the dyke e'en wi' ye ; 

I'd gang barefit to Carriboo, 

For sake o' aulden times to see ye." 

Sae, owre the bruckit wa' we clam, 

Freen Tam gaed first, an' I speil'd after ; 

Then, ovvTc a moss-grown stane, ram-stam, 
A wee drap made oor freenship safter. 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 21 

But, when the dram had warm'd his heid, 
His mouldie shroud he frae him flang it ; 

An' " Wad I gie a moment's heed ? 
He'd sing a speerit sang, or dang it !" 

A lichtit candle in his heid, 

As in a roadman's lamp was lowin' ; 
A ghaisther sicht I never se'ed, 

A spectral licht a deed man's pow in. 

" But, an ye like, your speerit sang, 

Faith ! I'se be blythe to hear ye try it/^ 

'Twas best, I thocht, to keep him thrang, 
An' haud mysel' a wee thocht quiet. 

The spectre straik'd his chafts a wee. 

Then ane, twa, three — the auld notation — 

He clam the scale wi' screwed-up e'e. 
An' yerkit oot this lood oblation : — 



THE SPECTRE'S SONG. 

(Dedicated to the Spirit-Howkers of 
HoRNiE Brae.) 

I'm what ye ca' a speerit force, 

Wi' naething in my stummack, O ! 
I ance had lands, an' kye, an' horse, 

Doun-bye in auld Carmunnock, O ! 
But weary fa' the fatal day. 

That I life's tow-line slippit, O ! 
I wasna yirth'd the second day, 

Till I kick'd up a rippit, O ! 



J2 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

A flafl o' vv^in' to fill the wame, 

Your thoomb-bane thin wi' sookin' o't ; 
I wonder wha could be to blame, 

Gin they wad daur the brookin' o't. 
Your airy, fairy forms of wax, 

An' dreams o' speerit beauty, O ! 
When harl'd thro' the reek o' facts. 

Lord knows ! look geyan sootie, O ! 

For, be the weather dry an' fair. 

Or let it rain like fountains, O ! 
It's aff, an' carry bags o' air, 

Up spiritual mountains, O ! 
Sic windy wark is no for me, 

Sic atmospheric capers, O ! 
Waist-deep in corn I'd rather be, 

Amang the bearded reapers, O ! 

It's broadly chalkit. No. i, 

The sphere that I'm located in. 
It's geyan faur below the gf un', 

An's tichtly barr'd an' grated in. 
Yon "Trongate" chaps whyles audience beg, 

An' he wha aye attends them, O ! 
Raps answers wi' a wooden leg, 

An' gas-oot secrets sends them, O ! 

To lift a table on ane's back. 

An' roun' the room gang stappin' wi't, 
Wad ding a speerit's banes to wrack, 

An' accidents micht happen wi't ; 
But, an' I'm able this day week. 

Life's high-road I'll be on it, O ! 
An', maybe, at their ain door-cheek, 

I'll dowfif my worsted bonnet, O ! 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 23 

As thus the ghaistly sang gaed on, 

Oot cam' my specks to help my seein' ; 

Tarn Rankin ? na, 'twas plainly shown, 
The spectral rascal had been leein'. 

'' Guid freen'," quo' I, '' I'm certain, noo, 
Ye're no the rale Ai Tam Rankin ! " 

Puff — oot the candle licht I blew, 

An' owre the dyke like stour gaed spankin'. 

When, hooly, twenty ghaists an' mair. 
To gi'e me chase lap oot o' hiding ; 

Elastic-heel'd, an licht as air, 
They ettled for me het abiding. 

But on I sped, hap-stap-an'-loup, 

Alang the road wi' pace tremendous ; 

Frae sic anither race, I howp 

The Fates will lang. exemption send us. 

A hundred paces in my rear. 

Puff-puffin' like an' engine biler ; 

A ghaistly voice faur ben my ear. 

Cried, '' Loup the whins, an' trip the tailor." 

Thocht I, as doun the hill I tore, 

" Ye thieveless, thowless pack o' ghaistlin's, 
Fair play ! an' plain roads to the 'fore, 

I'se try your win' a bittock eastlins'." 

An', trowth, they ane by ane lost puff 

Ere they the road had gone three mile o'er ; 

For though the chase w^as het an stiff, 
They didna' that nicht catch the tailor. 



The tale was owre, an' a was laughter 
Frae rantletree to 'binmost rafter ; 



24 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

An' aye the joke was — " That nicht, Charlie, 
The Deil's blockade ye ran it fairly." 

Noo, while guid humour rins in oil, 
An' seeds are cast in pleasant soil, 
Anither crack we'se blythely sit, 
An' daur a thimblefu' o't yet. 

Ance mair, the toddy caup o' wood. 
Up to the silver rim be fou'd ; 
The win' may shug the doors an tiles. 
Folks need a blink o' comfort whyles. 

Inside we'll mock the bangster win'. 
Ootside, we'll daur him when we're dune. 
Then gi'e the fire a roarin' steer, 
We'se haud the winkin' dawn in cheer. 

For Pleasure is a fickle jaud, 
An' seldom cometh when she's ca'd ; 
But since she's here we'll blythely sit. 
An' weet her lips a weeock yet. 

" Let Rab, the smith, e'en girr the wheel, 
I'se wad he'll burn the ring on weel." 
'*Ay, ay," quo' Sowdie Pate, ''let Rab 
Gi'e Daddie Care a (hiccup) stab." 

The Blinker rais'd his waukit luif. 
Said he, " I ne'er was held a cuif ; 
But aye, when this wae tale I tell. 
My heart jows like a deidman's bell." 



THE BLACKSMITH'S STORY; 

Or, The Stranger's Wraith. 

The Januat' wins were blawin' snell, 
The snaw lay deep on strath and fell ; 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 25 

Nor bleat o' sheep, nor chirp o' bird, 
Nor labours rumblin' wheels were heard. 
But a was silent, a' was still 
Alike by snaw-wreathed road an' hill. 
Save where the burn wi' brawlin' din, 
Swirl'd, foamin' owre some spritty linn, 
Or peasweeps' wae an' eerie cry, 
Wide-echo'd thro' the vacant sky. 

In siccan times, baith air an' late. 
The thrangity wi' horse was great ; 
Young naigs that wantit nail or shoe, 
Or heel-an'-tae bits steel'd anew. 
That they micht stievely tak' the road. 
An' walk the snaw-rinks primely shod. 

Oor auld grey smiddy, weel ye ken. 

Is howff'd a mile ayont the glen, 

Jist where the high road tak's a turn, 

An' mak's a wrinkle in the burn. 

In simmer, when the braes are green. 

An' fruits an' flowers are blossom'd seen. 

The spot is wildly sweet; but when 

The snaws up-choke baith road an' glen — 

Then, when the bellows blow and roar. 

And the bright glare lies on the wold. 
Broad-streaming thro' the open door. 
The scene is picturesque and bold, 
And looks, amid the pine-trees old, 
A rural picture o'er and o'er. 

The gable, with the sign-board rude, 
Just peeping o'er the branching thorn, 

That holds the master's credit good, 

When farmers drain the reaming horn — 

And healths are pledged — antiquely dew'd 
With rhyme-graced couplets, ancient worn. 



26 LILTS OX TLIE DORIC LYRE. 

But, saftly, lads, an' to my tale — 

The day was worn doun to the nail, 

An' sae was I ; for hard an" ticht 

Frae screigh o' day, till aucht o' nicht 

I there had stuid my waukit legs on. 

An' ca'd new aims a gey wheen naigs on; 

When just as I had shed my fire, 

An' hame was ettlin' to retire, 

Wi' prick o' spur, an' crack o' whip, 

A man on horse cam' breengin' up. 

" What, ho ! good friend, an' where away ? 

My horse, an't please ye; prithee stay ; 

For, foul or fair, this night I ride 

A brace of miles beyond Kilbride ; 

And he who this night dares the road, 

Should have his good steed primely shod/'' 

^* Good sir," quoth I, " the hour is late, 
My fire's blown cold, but yon't the gaet 
A biggish mile, or, maybe mair. 
The village smith will serve ye there.'' 

The stranger frown'd. '' Good friend," said he^ 
" Thy words are but a jest, a whim ; 
For if the night be late for thee, 
'Tis surely also late for him." 

This said, his steed he forward guides, 
An drives the rowels in her sides, 
A start, a bound, an' round the hill — 
The sounds recede, then all is still. 

That he niicht gang an' fecht the nicht 
An ride the roads, as best he micht, 
That was the only thocht cam o'er me, 
For twa-three chaps were waitin' for me ; 
An' blythely roun' the board that nicht, 
I held the story passing licht ; 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 27 

But an' ye'll tak my sworn aith, 

I that nicht met the stranger's wraith. 

A waefu' look it had, I troo, 

An bluid was lapper t on its broo ; 

Where'er I gaed its waukrife e'e 

Was fixed upbraidingly on me ; 

An sic' a pair o' speerin' e'en, 

They lookit thro' an' thro' me clean ; 

Nae doot o't, I was geyan gled 

To creep, that nicht, awa to bed. 

Next morn, when on the hills the dawn 
The screens o' daylicht had withdrawn ; 
The anvil horn I rung again. 
An' mingled wi' the thrang o' men ; 
But ere the breakfast 'oor cam' roun' 
I heard what gied my heart a stoun' 
That morning, on the hills, unbound. 
The stranger's reinless steed was found. 
But empty w^as the master's seat. 
The snaw had been his winding-sheet ; 
An' thus, that fatefu' nicht, the wraith 
Had cam' to blame me wi' his death. 



When thus the Blinker's tale was owre. 
The Sowdie gied a ben-ward glow'r. 
" Guid help us a! " cried he, " what's that ? " 
An' fidgit eerie where he sat. 

" I'll tak' my aith, a stap I heard. 

Gang ben, an' see hoo fares the Laird." 

" Hee, hee," laughed wee ben-leather Tammie, 

" Gie frichtit Pate an extra drammie. 



28 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Auld Wabster Wattie scratch'd his lug ; 
" Hoot, toots," said he, '' it's a humbug/' 
The Dominie gat oot his snuff, 
An' look'd I tell ye, queer enough. 

The Blinker laugh'd ; but Sowdie Pate, 
His bannet gat to gang the gaet ; 
Up lap the tailor wi' a bang. 
Said he, " TU mak it richt or wrang." 

When jist as he had spak', Guid Lord ! 
By a! in sainted heaven adored — 
The door gaed backwards to the wa', 
An' — ^whew — the Laird stood 'mang them a'! 

Then weird an' wild the cry was heard — 
Wauk up the hoose ! the Laird ! the Laird ! 
Syne in their rumble-tumble wark, 
Oot gaed the licht, an' a' was dark. 

Wow but it was an eerie sicht 
Auld Westerfauld beheld that nicht — 
The late Laird or his leevin' wraith, 
Playin' an awsome prank wi' death. 

His een fixed wi' a ghaistly scare, 
His deid-shroud whusslin' owre the flair ; 
His lang white chafts, his solemn stap — 
Nae ferlie that they roar d an' lap. 

Prone on his knees drap'd Sowdie Pate ; 
" Lord, thou art guid an thou art great ! " 
Lang Charlie he lap owre Pate's held, 
An' thro' the winnock bang'd wi' speed. 

The Dominie wi' fear owrecome, 
Gaed roarin' murder up the lum ; 
Wow but he was a bonnie sicht, 
When he crap owre the tiles that nicht. 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 2Qf 

Clean gyte wi' fricht, ben-leather Tarn 
The binmost shelf for safety clam. 
The Wabster, wi' tremendous bang, 
His bannet at the Laird's held flang. 

But Rab, the Blinker, seiz'd a gun. 

An' swore he'd fire ere he wad run. 

" Hoots," quo' the Laird, " as Lm a sinner, 

Pit up the gun — there's naething in her. 

But wha wad thocht Wat wad dune it. 
To shy at me his worsted bonnet.'' 
Wat naething spak, his e'en were baith 
Wide-glowrin' like a second wraith. 

Jist then, up-wauken'd wi' the scare, 
Hap cam' the auld wife doun the stair; 
But when the wraith-like Laird she saw, 
- She screigh'd, an' fentit clean awa'. 

Doun frae the rafters loupit Tarn, 

" Poor oot," said he, '' the Laird a dram ; 

His deid-claes winna daunton me, 

I kenn'd it frae the first 'twas he. 

Up gat the gudewife frae her fent 
An' when the happy truth she kent ; 
Quo' she, wi' mischief in her e'e, 
" Fegs, wanters noo maun wait a wee. 

" That's three times, Laird, ye've jink't the Deil, 
Gane deid, an' wauken'd perfeck weel ; 
But, guidman, in your next death-weed. 
Cry hooly an' ye're fairly deed." 

Mute in the ben-nook Sowdie Pate 
Sat laigh, an' chew'd the cud o' fate ; 
Twas said the prayer he made that nicht^ 
Had less devotion in't than fricht. 



30 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Belyve the lang-legged Tailor chap 
Cam' canny back to learn the hap ; 
But no the Dominie. My fegs ! 
Straucht hamevvards he made soople legs. 

But when his wifie ope'd the door, 
She e'ed him wi' a red-wud roar ; 
His black chafts gied her sic a fricht, 
She barr'd him oot till mornin' licht. 

The man o' letters scratched his pow, 
Quo he, " Tm in a sair fix now ; 
But 111 be waefu' wat an cauld 
Ere I gang back to Westerfauld." 

In's chair the Laird they happit up. 
An' stey'd his wame wi' bite and sup ; 
An' aye the joke was — '^ Laird, come tell, 
What gar d ye thus come to yersel ? " 

The Laird bethocht himsel a w^ee. 
Then wi' a blythesome face said he 
(Between words winkin' owre to Tarn), 
'' Indeed, 'twas jist the fragrant dram !" 

Then blessings on the hearty maut, 

Or by whatever name it's ca t. 

That fills us fou o' pith an pang, 

An' mak's us richt when mountains wrang. 

But wad ye taste it clear o' skaith, 
Gae strain it thro' a tartan claith. 
An' flavour't wi a thistle-tap, 
Then lug it in a three-girr'd caup. 

.For that's the w-ay oor faithers did, 
An' they were men o' valiant bluid ; 
An' pinn'd oor thistle-flower o' worth, 
A mile abune the best on earth. 



THE WAUKRIFE LYKEWAKE. 

And lang, lang may it flourish there, 
Wild-wavmg in its native air ; 
And gem oor hills, whose foreheads broad 
Look up to liberty and God. 




32 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Candlemas Chimes and Rent-day 
Rhymes. 

Since inditing the following poems — one or two of which 
have already obtained publicity in the columns of that widely- 
circulated and thoroughly popular newspaper, the Glasgcnu 
Weekly Mail, — I have been favoured with several communica- 
tions from the female secretary of a powerful and influential 
Institution, calling itself, *' The Protective Society of the 
Associated Auld Wives o' the Wast o' Scotland," who officially 
declares, that, unless I am careful of my humour in future, the 
said Society shall infallibly exert themselves to have a bill 
of libel filed against me in the Camlachie Court of Session, 
Jerusalem ! The sight of a bankrupt poet in the witness-box 
would be, I daresay, a sight only less melancholy than that of 
a City Provost. Therefore, be it known to the ** Associated 
Auld Wives o' the Wast o' Scotland," that I bear them no 
malice whatever ; that, on the contrary, to travesty the line of 
a popular old ditty — 

** An auld Scotch wife is my delight ; " 

that their couthie presence is everywhere desirable, the sight of 
their weel-piped mutches full of refreshing reminiscences, their 
snuff positively excellent, and their ** crack" a perfect mental 
and moral intoxication. Furthermore, in the unlikely event of 
a foreign foe ever touching our shores, the inspiring spectacle of 
an auld Scotch wife, wi' a thistle patriotically stuck in her 
mutch, and energetically whistling " Hey, Tuttie, Tuttie," 
would force me to take up the noble refrain of Bums' popular 
War-song — 

** Forward ! let us do or die." 
In solemn attestation of all which, witness my signature — 

ALEX. G. MURDOCH, 
His X niark. 



CANDLEMAS RHYMES and RENT-DAY CHIMES. 33 



THE FLITTIN' DAY. 

A versified rccapittdation of what auld Mrs 
Tak' -7iote-d -itJicr-f oiks -affairs saw through her best 
flint specks on that cventfic morning. 

O leeze me on the flittin' day — 

The briskest o' the year, 
The rumble-tumble flittin' day, 

It's aye a day o' steer; 
It 's then we see oor neebor folks 

Turn oot their whirliwha's, 
Their auld nick-nacks, their odds-an'-ends, 

Their clocks against the was ; 
Their jugs withoot the handles, 

And their stools withoot the legs ; 
Their orra duds wi' patches rife. 

Their Sunday braws — my fegs ! 

Said Mrs — What-d'ye-Call her noo i^ — 

Her name 's aboon, I think. 
As, risin' frae her bed, she socht 

The winnock in a blink, 
And wrappin' flannel roun' her heid, 

She cleaned her newest specks, 
Then settled doon to ettle notes 

O' ither folks' efl"ecks ; 
Nae scrimpit paragraphic scraps — 

But editorial lang. 
She streecht'd the stumpie portraits oot. 

Her tongue wag-waggin' thrang. 
An' aye as some new bit o' dress 

Or furniture she saw. 
She stievly crack'd her thoombs an' cried, 

'^Ma patience, that beats a'!" 
C 



34 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

She wasna gien to scandalise ; 

She aye was douce an' quate ; 
But here 's a sample o' her tongue ; — 

Note this — she never flate ! 

There 's Mrs Hardnieves wi' her trash — 

The pawnshop kens them a' — 
The fechtin' fricht o' the haill close — 

'Od she'll be weel awa ! — 
A table an' a chair or twa ; 

A hat the croon dang in ; 
An' auld chaff-bed, an' twa-three duds — 

That 's the deserts o' sin. 
Hoo a wee cuddie an' a cart 

Can keep a drucken wife, 
An' feed her weans — I canna see't, 

No for my born life ; 
I like a wee drap drink mysel', 

It mak's us cracky free ; 
But fegs ! I wadna gang sae far 

As some I daily see. 
I've aince or twice gaen ower the score, 

Nae doot, that 's perfeck true, 
But aince or twice is something less 

Than everlastin' fou'. 

Hech me ! Vv^ha's yon but Mrs Smart, 

Wha thinks hersel' sae braw, 
Observe hoo she has spread her gear 

For show alang the wa'. 
They're no the real mahogany — 

On that I'll tak' my aith ; 
What's mair, the chairs an' chest o' drawers 

Are second-handed baith. 
An' yon 's her pictures, hand yer tongue ! 

The " Field o' Waterloo," 



CANDLEMAS RHYMES and RENT-DAY CHIMES. 35 

" The Sacrifice o' Abraham," 

An' " Burns abint the Plough/' 
Hoo she can leeve in sunshine aye, 

While ithers snoove in reek, 
An' buy sae mony bonnet strings 

Aff her bit pound a-week. 
It 's mair than me an' mony mae 

Can strictly weel mak' oot — 
There 's something o' a mystery in't — 

That 's clear, without a doot ; 
An' mair than that, it seems to me, 

As plain 's the letter S, 
Gin every grocer had their ain, 

She'd hae a trifle less. 



Wha's this comes next — that's Mrs Prydc, 

By some, the " widow " ca'd. 
Her man's been dead these twa-three months. 

Pit aff yer weeds, ye jaud ! 
For weel we ken, baith air an late, 

Ye're keekin' at the men ; 
An' faith ! the cock that mates wi' ye 

'111 scratch a toozie hen. 
Ye needna spread yer gangrels oot 

To tak' some hameless e'e ; 
It 's no a grate an' twa-three chairs 

'111 airt a man to ye. 
Your "grand connexions," what's their worth ? 

The whussle o' a flute. 
Tak' my advice, young Mrs Pryde, 

An' rub your sign-board oot. 
Or if yer bent upon a man, 

Jist adverteeze your case ; 
For auchteen-pence the newspapers 

'111 gie yer wants a place. 



LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

Whase auld straw-bed can this be noo ? 

Will wonders never cease ? 
Can it be Mrs Clatterbags ? — 

The breaker o' the peace. 
She wha has aye sae big a " brag," 

An casts sae mony airs ; 
Whase brisk-gaun tongue is never quate 

On ither folks' affairs ; 
Whase middlin' ways hae brocht aboot 

Sae mony stairheid fechts, 
An' gart douce neebor bodies steek 

Their neeves like airn wechts. 
To poke my nose intil the pat 

O' ither folks kail-broo, 
As she has everlastin' dune, 

Is mair nor I could do. 
Sma' heed I gie to ither folks — 

E'en let them glunch or gloom — 
Intent upon my ain affairs, 

I never fash my thoom. 
Though whiles, out ower the winnock sill, 

I tak' a wee bit dab, 
To see hoo neebor bodies fen, 

But never gie't the blab. 
Na, na ; I aye was weel brocht up. 

An' still the lesson mind ; 
For jist as the young twig is bent, 

Sae the auld tree 's inclined. 

Weel, Aveel, she hasna much to brag, 

If that's her haill turn-oot, 
I've seen a bigger barrowfu' 

The moon-licht road tak' foot. 
An' auld book-case, a lookin'-gless, 

An ancient aucht-day clock 
That hasna noted time, since when ? — 

Since Moses struck the rock. 



CANDLEMAS RHYMES and REXT-DAY CHIMES. 37 

That jist aboot the feck o' a 

That she has scrap't thegither. 
The twenty-aucht o' May's the day 

Lets neebers ken ilk ither. 
It's then we see our gangrel friens 

Turn oot their whirhwa's, 
Their auld nick-nacks, their odds and ends, 

Their clocks against the wa's ; 
Their jugs without the handles, 

An' their stools without the legs ; 
Their orra duds wi' patches rife, 

Their Sunday braws, my fegs. 
Then leeze me on the flittin' day, 

The briskest o' the year ; 
The rumble-tumble flittin' day, 

Its aye a day o' steer. 

So sang oor auld note-takin' freen, 

An' cannilie withdrew 
Her heid within the winnock, 

Syne sat doon to sup her broo. 
An' the moral o' that mornin's wark. 

She aft was gien to tell, 
Gart her think less o' ither folks, 

An' much mair o' hersel'. 



THE HOOSE-TAKIN'; 

OR, 

Auld Mrs. Tak'-note-d'ither-f oiks -affairs Scc.nd 
Keek through her Best Flint Specks, 

Related^ in a Confidential Crack, to her But-an'''Beii Neebor, 
J\lrs. Ytickie Ltigs, 

*' Come ben, auld Mrs Yuckie Lugs, 
An' share my mornin' crack, 



38 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

For ae hauf-hour let hoose affairs, 

If sae be, gang to wrack ; 
For gin we wait a fitter time 

We'se maybe wait a while — 
There's naething for us women folks 

But hudgie-drudgie toil 
'Tween makin' meals, an' washin' fluirs, 

An' soopin' doon the stair, 
It's precious seldom we hae got 

An inch o' time to spare. 
Gif men folks work beyont their hours, 

The thing is deem'd a sin, 
But, air or late, wi' women folks, 

The guddle's never dune ; 
Sae, for a bittock you an' I 

Sail let the tow rin slack.'' 
The twa gaed linkin' but the hoose, 

And thus gaed on the crack. 

Mrs. Tak'-note. 

I've aften ferlied hoo it comes 

That neebor folks aboot 
Could pay their score, an' mak' ower't a! 

Aye sic a gran' turn-oot. 
I'm neither gien to meddlin' folks, 

Nor notin their affairs, 
But whyles I kittle up like mad 

To see their unca airs. 
Ye'U ken auld Mrs Blaw-a-bit, 

The haverin' auld fule, 
Whase tongue about her furniture 

Rins like a flooded rill ; 
This whilesin' back I've studied her. 

An' hopefu' wrocht awa' ; 
An' cleaned my best specks twenty times 

To look her oot o' thraw. 



CANDLEMAS RHYMES and RENT-DAY CHIMES 39 

But, na, she wadna stan' the test, 

But seem'd, aye when I cam' 
To tak' a moral keek at her, 

As gleed's a boxin' ram. 
Sae, ae nicht to mysel' says I, 

Noo, Mrs Blaw-a-bit, 
Gif rumour wags her clapper true. 

It's said ye're gaun to flit ; 
An' that be sae, I'll mak' pretence, 

An' cannilie I'll gang, 
An' see the inside o' your hoose — 

In that there's little wrang. 
Sae, I got on my chacket shawl, 

An' quately oot I gaed. 
No that at a' I meant to flit, 

Tho' that exkase I made. 
But jist to satisfy my mind. 

An' e'en learn for mysel' 
For what auld Mrs Blaw-a-bit 

Aye rang sae lood a bell. 
Weel, up I slippet to her door. 

An' cannilie I rapp'd, 
" I've cam' to see the hoose," quo' I, 

An bauldly ben I stapp'd ; 
** An' is the bed quite free o' damp ? 

The wa's, are they quite dry ? 
An' does the lum gang nice an' free ?'' 

Quo Blaw-a-bit, " Ou ay;" 
'*An' dae ye leave here wi' a grudge? 

Or can ye faut the hoose ?'' 
Quo' she, '' The room's ower sma for me, 

Indeed's for little use. 
My furniture has grown sae much 

That I'll e'en need to gang 
An' arle, for comfort's sake, a big 

Twa-room hoose richt or wrang. 



40 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

My chest o' drawers an' sofa baith 

Are jist rale crushed thegither, 
An' then my guid mahogany chairs 

Are elbowing ane anither ; 
My pictures, too, are hung sae thick 

That the effeck is lost, 
An' a' artistic licht an' shade," 

Quo' I, *' Exkase my hoast ; 
I've got a rale bad cauld, ye see, 

An' wi't a kirkyaird spit" 
(The ne'er a spit had I ye ken, 

Nor cough nor cauld a bit.) 
But jist to hear her fulish talk, 

I couldna' weel contain, 
Sae hoastit oot my chockin' mirth. 

An' chack'd the blawflum strain. 

Mrs. Yuckie Lugs. 

Her furniture ! hech, sirs, the day ! 

An' see her highness flit, 
We'll maybe hae an orra chance 

To corner-keek it yet. 
But, trowth, I fear the chance is sma', 

For ere that time comes roun' 
Her things will take the gaet some nicht 

Beneath a burket moon. 

Mrs. Tak'-xote. 

Deed an' ye're no faur afif the m.ark. 

For, tackin' roun' her lee, 
Quo' I, '^Noo, Mrs. Blaw-a-bit, 

Your room I'd like to see." 
'' Ou ay !" quo' she, an' ben she gaed, 

But fand the door was lock'd ; 
" The sorra tak' the key," she cried, 

An' to the flytin' yoked. 



CANDLEMAS RHYMES and RENT-DAY CHIMES. 41 

" That thowless key is aye amiss, 

When folks my room wad view." 
Thinks I, 'deed, Mrs. Blaw--a-bit, 

Ye're on the richt rail noo. 
So, while she rummag'd ben the hoose. 

Thro' ilka nook an' chink, 
I looted doon, an' keekit thro' 

The key-hole in a blink, 
An' as I've got to answer for't. 

The place frae floor to roof 
Was jist, as far as I cood see, 

As bare's a beggar's loof — 
Nor chest o' drawers, nor pictur'd wa's, 

Nor e'en a wander'd chair. 
Save ae auld antiquarian bed. 

The sorra else was there ! 
I ne'er gat sic a big surprise 

In a' my born days, 
I thocht I wad hae swarf d awa' 

Wi' doonricht deid amaze. 

Mrs. Yuckie Lugs. 

The deil tak' pride ; that I sood ban ; 

But slippy is the grup 
When plain folks dicht their nebs an' try 

To flee like leddies, up ; 
For, sune or late, the big black han' 

O' misluck never fails 
To cast a goupinfu' o' saut 

Athwart their pridefu' tails. 

Mrs. Tak-Note. 

Ay, deed, that's true, an' I cood tell 

A nebbie tale or twa 
Hoo pride vdU sometimes mak' a slip 

An' get an aukward fa' ; 



42 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

But weel ye ken I seldom fash 

Wi' ither folks, nor gie 
The sma'est cause for neebors roun' 

To mak' remarks on me. 
Na, na, that's no the gait o' me, 

I dinna like to bla.w. 
But, clear o' that, than me there's few 

Good gie a cro Dser craw. 
Gif I but held wi' neebor wife 

The w^ee'st scandal-crack, 
My conscience for three weeks to come 

Wad jist be on the rack, 
Tho' whyleocks, I micht haud wi' you, 

A quate an' cosh bit chat. 
Or tak' a keek at what's gaun on — 

There's nae rale harm in that ! 
Guid-day, then, Mrs Yuckie Lugs, 

Some ither time, ne'er fear, 
We'll sum up auld outstanding cracks, 

An' score the ledofer clear. 



THE RENT DAY ; 

OR, 

Hoo Auld Mysie Oot-Generaled Her Hoose-Factor, 

Auld I\Iysie by the ingle sat 

An' flate the fates for lang an' langer, 

There wasna muckle harm in that. 

The best o's whiles gang wud wi' anger. 

The Rent day had come roun' ance mair 
An' fand her in a fix — guid wuman ! 

Sae, wi' a dowf an' waefu' air 

She waited on the Factor s comin'. 



CANDLEMAS RHYMES and RENT-DAY CHIMES. 43 

Before her, snug amang the ause, 

Auld baudrons dozed wi' sleepy bHnkers 

Her fore-paws laid across her nose 
Like ither philosophic thinkers. 

Sae soun' her sleep, sae quate the hoose 
The mice were roun' her whiskers jinkin' ; 

Tho', dootless, in her dreams, oor puss 
Was hunting them ilk nook an' chink in. 

Quoth Mysie, sittin' a' alane, 

" Hech! but thir times are worth the hangin, 
This day, oor gaucy Laird, its plain 

Maun jist withoot his rent be gangin . 

" I'll keep the hoose, an' steek the door 

An' move aboot wi' canny footin', 
The factor he may rap an' roar, 

Fm oot, that's settled past disputin'. 

When, scliff-sclafif, up the wooden stair 
The factor's foot was heard ascendin'; 

His every stap twa stoun's an' mair 
Thro' Mysie's heart was extra sendin'. 

Straucht up he cam', an' cannilie 

Against the door he laid his knuckles. 

Thocht Mysie, " Fegs, ye'll wait a wee 
Ere ye Avin in. Laird — boots an' buckles. 

" When rent day comes ye're unca fain 

To look us up an' sneck the siller, 
Misluck may sen' ye win' an' rain. 

But no for that ye'll knuckle till her. 

" But tell ye that frae en' to en' 

The hoose, for certain, needs repairin'. 

As lang's a bodie mak's a fen. 
The sorra ither haet ye're carin'. 



44 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

^'Rap, tap, tir-rap; ay, there ye gang, 
Jist chap awa' till patience lea ye. 

Fegs, dinna dae the door-boards wrang 
An absent tenant canna see ye. 

" The deil' tak' ye ! that I sood scauld ; 

You Factor-folks get business credit. 
But let oor rents be three days auld 

Yell quately tak' the law an' sned it. 

'^ 'Od, sic a breenge ! Hech, but ye're crazed ! 

To kick up sic a clamihewit, 
Tak' care. Laird ! an' I'm richtly raised 

I'll treat ye to a heartie flewit. 

A dish-clout laid across your lugs 
Wad, maybe, teach ye better mainners, 
A fig for a' your beagle thugs 

An' tell-tale-tongued stairheid retainers. 

^' As lang's oor guidman staps the yird 
An I oot-owre the doors can paidle 

I'll ride, wi' heart as licht's a bird, 

Life's spaivin'd naig, tho' short the saidle. 

" Tho' coals be dear, as lang's we dow 
We'll aye fin' some wee bink to sair us 

An' kennle up a bonnie lowe 

Tho' misluck dae her warst to skair us. 

** But wheesht ! an' I'm no wrang, I think 
There's some ane to his Lairdship speakin' 

I'll slip behint the door a blink 

An' sniff the kail-pat while it's reekin'. 

" Mischanter lick me wi' a rung ! 

As I'm this day a leevin' sinner ! 
If that's no Mrs. Nashgab's tongue 

Oot-spewin' a' the spite that's in her. 



CANDLEMAS RHYxMES and RENT-DAY CHIMES. 45 

" Jist hear the jaud !" '' Beyond a doot, 
She's in, o' that I'm perfeck certain, 

Jist bide ye. Laird, an' shame her oot, 
Rap twice ere ye think o' depairtin'." 

The tell-tale wins that spak the clash 
As thro' the key-hole chink it slippet, 

Gied Mysie's temper instant flash 
An' thereby bred an' unca rippet. 

Thocht she, '' The sorra tak' your tongue 

Auld Nashgab, an' may I be licket 
Wi' black mischanter's gnarled rung 

Gif your wee game, I dinna nick it." 

Sae, cannilie she forms a plot 

An' harls the bed-claes owre the table, 

Slips off her gown, tie's up her throat, 
An' looks as no-zveel as she's able. 

To ee'd her then, a bodie sure 

Wad thocht her wae an' unca ill o't. 

Had health had gotten sic a door 

She'd, maybe, never square the bill o't. 

Then quately she the door re-seeks 
To list the ill-tongued scandal jobber, 

Quo' Nashgab, " Laird, its weeks an' weeks 
Since she was onything like sober." 

"Jist rap her oot — she's but the hoose. 
An' brawlie kenn'd she o' your comin'." 

Roar'd Mysie, noo, wi' tongue run loose — 
'' Shut up ! ye nesty, leein' woman." 

Then, bang ! the door she open jee'd. 

While Nashgab bolted her's like lichtnin' ; 

Wi' besom-handle hung owre 's heid, 

Wow, but she gied the Laird a frichtnin' ! 



46 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE, 

"An' you, ye bitter, spitefu' jaud. 
To set the Factor's lugs a-bummin' ; 

An' threep an ugly scandal blaud. 

That I was weel, an' kenn'd his comin' ! 

" To force a bodie oot o' bed, 

An gar me nyte when hoarse an' roupit — 
For shame, ye auld nash-gabbit gled ! 

Sic tongues as yours sood aye be croupit. 

"An' as for you, auld Laird" — but, wow. 
The Laird was aff, an' oot the entry ! 

Folks said he ne'er gat sic a cowe 

Since he had first owre rents stood sentry. 

Awa he spank'd on soople legs. 

Nor e'er frae that to this has seen her ; 

An rumour says that Mysie, fegs ! 

Has gotten twal' months' credit gie'n her. 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 47 

Miscellaneous Poems, 

CHIEFLY HUMOROUS. 



BE AYE BRIZZING YONT. 

(Being a7ie gidd Moral Advice to all and stmdrie.) 

As owre the warld's whinstane roads 

Life's fash you're fechtin' thro', 
Ye'll Hkely meet wi' mony slips, 

An' maybe fa's a few ; 
But no for that gang heepie-creep. 

But still wi' manly front 
Thro' drodum-skelpin' scaur an' waur 

Be aye brizzing yont. 

Misfortune is a bangster chiel, 

Whyles deals a heavy blow ; 
He swings the hammer hard owre hip, 

Faith ay ! an' what for no ? 
But when the punishment is owre, 

We seldom think upon't ; 
Then up, an' bustlin' to the fore. 

Be aye brizzing yont. 

I've seen a bodie i' my time 

Without a single howp, 
Amang the flinty whins o' life 

Laid clean upon his dowp ; 
But tichtly he'd get up again, 

The better for the brunt — 
Gin ye wad score success in life, 

Be aye brizzing yont. 



48 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

When corner'd wi' a social freen 

To whyle your cares awa', 
Ye may, an' yeVe a mind, tak' ane, 

But never venture tzva. 
'Tis only thus that ye'll contrive 

To sneck the door on want ; 
Clear o' the shooglie planks o' life 

Be aye brizzing yont. 

As thro' the lanes o' life ye jouk 

Ye'll ablins meet wi' some, 
Wha owre a wee bit bother mak' 

An' unca weary bum ; 
But up, an' bauldly breast the tide 

As is the true man's wont. 
In sailor-phrase, the compass course 

Be aye brizzing yont. 

An' some ye'll find o' feckless stuff 

Wha winna haud the grup ; 
But aye when fortune kicks the trams 

The kittle race gie up. 
Sic prophets o' disasters snell 

Are ever crying — don't ; 
But snap your thoomb, an' owre the bent,. 

Be aye brizzing yont. 

Ne'er let the contact o' the warld 

Your straucht-gaun purpose mar. 
But keep your conscience haill an' clean 

An' grudge the wee'st scar. 
The broad an' open road o' Truth, 

When ance ye're fairly on't. 
Across its w^hins wi' sicker step 

Be aye brizzing yont. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 49 

E'en let mischanter geek your heels 

An' thraw your steyest step, 
The open honest heart doth aye 

Some God-sent blessings kep. 
Then, still in sunshine or in rain, 

Up owre the Pisgah mount, 
Towards the Christian hame o' hames 

Be aye brizzing yont. 



THE KIRS'NEN O' THE BAIRN; 

Or, Somebody's Mistake 

Whilst modern Bardship, wud for fame, 

Parnassus' brae up-sprauchles. 
Let me still jink aboot the hearth 

On hamely kitchen bauchles. 
Some ither day, a loftier theme 

May gie my wings an airin'. 
But this nicht I'll sit doun an' write 

The kirs'nen o' the bairn. 



The nicht that oor wee doo cam' hame 

(Guid luck gang wi' the howdie), 
The cakes an' cheese gaed roun' like stoor^ 

An' tongues went rowdy-dowdy — 
A perfeck airmfu' o' a wean ! — 

The picture o' its daddie ! 
An' twenty times owre to the licht, 

To roose it I was ca'd aye. 

D 



50 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Thocht I, as ben the spence I snoov'd, 

An' hirsled in a corner, 
" To gie mysel' fair play, its true. 

The wean's jist rale by-or'nar. 
Though something late the lassie's cam', 

(For weVe been lang thegither) 
The gossip's tongue wid rin a mile 

To match me sic anither." 

Thus ilka nicht — a week an' mair — 

The hoose was warm an' steerin' ; 
An* for the mither an' her bairn, 

The kintra-side was speerin'. 
An' sic a wean ! that, jist to see't, 

'Twas worth a three days' j auntie — 
Though whiles I blamed the blythe-meat dram 

For makin' them sae vauntie. 

But when the kirs'nen day cam' roun', 

Feth ! I was in a swither — 
Wi' cousin Geordie's best suit on, 

I thocht mysel' anither. 
The sleeves were jist a kennin' lang. 

The tails hung kind o' throu'ther ; 
But — whew — the hat gaed owre my e'en. 

An' rested on ilk shouther. 



But swiftly twa-three Weekly Mails 

Were faulded to the roun' o't ; 
An' ane by ane, wi' canny care. 

Were stappit in the croun o't. 
An' when put on, Lord ! yes, 'twas true, 

I look'd jist like the gentry. 
The match o' me was seldom seen, 

Benorth the hills o' Fintr}^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ■ 

Sae, aff we gaed, an' gleg an' fast, 

The wife gied me advice aye, 
To mind my han', an', ere I spak', 

To chowe my thochts owre twice aye. 
An' mind an' haud the bairn up weel, 

An' no look dowff an' sumphie ; 
But tell my crack wi' manly birr, 

An' no snoove like a grumphie. 

" Hech me! " sich'd I, ''but this is nice. 

To dree the wifie's barkin's. 
An' gang before the minister, 

An' thole the kirk's remarkin's. 
The fash an' cares o' married life. 

Had I but hauf forseen them ! 
"Buty for mail" bah^ns! — may years an' years 

Gang faur enough between them." 

At length,' the bairn laid owre my airms, 

I bauldly ben gaed stumpin'; 
But when my turn to stan' had cam'. 

My nerves wi' fricht were jumpin'. 
But up I held the bairn, as ye'd 

Haud oot a plate for awmous, 
When, guidsake ! as ill-luck wid hae't, 

The wean was kirs'ten'd '' Tammas," 

Mischanter seize the heartless fates, 

That work sic cruel capers, — 
The minister or beadle John 

Had somehow mixed the papers ; 
Or I, pat gyte wi' nervous fear, 

My turn had clean mistakit, 
An' sae oor pet was misnamed " Tam," 

Whilk pat the wife distrackit. 



52 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

My wordie ! hoo she bann'd an' storm'd 

When we gat oot the kirkie, — 
A mile an' mair she flate me hame, 

An left my nerves gey jerkie. 
An' e'en, when corner'd snug at hame, 

Her tongue the glegger ran aye — 
While I, to ease her wrath, play'd oot 

The tow-line nice and canny. 

But aye 'twas, '^ Och ! this sair mistak' 

Will work oor bairn mischanter ; 
For, an' the auld presage gangs true. 

She'll lang lang be a wanter. 
An' she shall hae a beard before. 

The laddie bairn she's ca'd for ; 
An' that, ye ken, is something mair 

Than dooce-gaun Nature baud for." 

*^Beard, or no beard! Amen ! " I cried, 

" I carena by a spittle ! " 
When, gowff, her steek'd nieve took my lug. 

An pat me on my mettle. 
Then up I bang'd, my angry wame 

Wi' perfeck Avrath distended ; — 
The wifie quately edged awa'. 

An' there the duddrie ended. 



THE FU' WEE WIFIEKIE. 

The first eight lines of the following verses — saving a few 
-verbal alterations— fonn part of a very old fragment of Doric 
verse, the composition of one Geddes, a Roman Catholic 
priest. 

There was a wee wifiekie. 

Was coming frae the fair, 
Had got a wee bit drapikie. 

That bred her muckle care. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 53 

It took upon her hameart heart, 

An' she begoud to spew ; 
An' quo' the wifiekie — '' My fegs ! 

I hope I'm no fu'/' 

It chanced this dooce wee wifiekie 

A gangrel bodie met, 
Wha e'ed her wee infirmity, 

An' lean'd her owre a yett. 
^'NoQ, what's gaen wrang, an' whaur^syourhame? 

Speak oot, an' tell me true." 
'' 'Deed," quo' the wifiekie, ^' I doot 

I'm jist rale fu'. 

*^ Doun-bye whaur Kelvin's waters meet, 

An' mingle wi' the Clyde, 
I laird a wee bit binkie hoose 

That cocks its nose at pride. 
An', gin ye tak' me there this nicht, 

I'll thank ye weel, I tioo, 
For losh, as you may plainly see, 

I'm jist blin' fu'. 

'^ It's not that much I had, but jist 

The dribs o' twa gill stoups; 
The wee'st thochtie tak's my heid. 

An' feckly me owre-coups. 
My fegs, the times are chang'd, I ween, 

An' things are lookin' blue, 
When a bit thimblefu' o' maut 

Mak's dacent folks fu'. 

^* I mind when I was young an' lithe, 

An stievely stapp'd the yird, 
A taste o't in my aitmeal cog 

Left me as blythe 's a bird ; 



54 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

But noo, when sorted wi' a frien, 

Gif I but weet my mou' 
I ship a sea or twa gaun hame, 

An' land ^^y fu'. 

" Oor John — or e'er the vale of death 

He sHppit canny ben — 
Gat wond'rous gleg aboot the pow, 

An' bragg'd the wut o' ten. 
An' aye your modern dram, he said, 

Gied him the grumlie goo. 
He vowed 'twas no the guid auld stufif 

That fiU'd oor dads fu\ 

*^ An', quately, frien', he didna speak 

A mile ayont the truth, — 
The 7'ale stuff neither racks the heid, 

Nor leaves a lowin' drooth. 
'Twas best when oor auld daddies brew'd 

Their ain drap maut, I troo, 
An' took a sip o't, noos an' than — 

But never fell fu". 

*' An' noo, guid nicht, an' thank ye, frien'. 

Hech ! but the win's blaw snell ; 
Tho' stoorie be the roads, I think, 

111 manage hame mysel'. 
An' see me landed safe an" snug, 

The whins and breckans thro, 
I'll neither gang sae faur frae hame, 

Nor get sae (hie) fu'." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. SS 

EPISTLE TO JAMES NORVAL, 
A Caltox Bard. 

AULD Freex', 

A twalmonth's gane and mair 
Since you an I acquainted were, 
An' cantie-ways I feel whene'er 

I'm corner'd wi' ye; 
In trowth, I like ye mair an' mair, 

The mair I see ye. 

An' prood am I to tak' your part. 
My daddie in the rhymin' art; 
There's few, I think, wad hae the heart, 

To read your lays 
An' no find wells o' feelin' start 

An' words o' praise. 

Your '' Auld Man's Sang," your '' Aunty Meg," 
An' yon ane where on happer't leg 
The ^\'^efu' woman comes to beg 

The pickle meal, 
Micht gie the stainiest hearts a fleg. 

An' gar them feel. 

Your weanie's sca7'e, the weird " Boo-man," 
Rattlin like " chuckies in a can," 
Wee bairnies' hearties to trepann, 

An gar them sleep, 
Frichts them as if a muckle han' 

Was rais'd in threep. 

Let thrawn misfortune kick your shins 

An' puirtith hand ye thro' the wins, 

Yon grand bit on the wild '' March Win's," 

A noble sang. 
Will some day set ye on your pins. 

Or r*m faur wranq;. 



56 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

In purse ye dinna much excel ; 
I'm no a millionaire mysel'; 
It's seldom poets' pouches tell 

The money jingle, 
But lang, as now, may comfort dwell 

At your blythe ingle. 

For me, my Muse, baith late an' air, 
To head the brae is croighlin sair, 
The' whiles, when wTapt in visions rare 

In some lone glen. 
She tak's a higher flicht in air 

Than some we ken. 

But ere the days grow lang an' licht. 
Faith! I'se be doun some antrin nicht 
To gie your furthy heart a hecht 
An' share your crack, 
And daddie Care will get a fricht 
Ere I gae back. 

The poets in oor crack will blend, 

We'll read the happy lays they've penn'd — 

The '' Rambler' Hugh, wha ca'd you " friend/' 

Sweet be his rest ! 
Rodgers an' ililler — them ye kenn'd — 

An' a' the rest. 

But lest the tow-line sood rin' slack, 
May I see there Laird Bob^ — stan' back ! 
I houp his Lairdsliip winna brack 

Auld freenship s kin. 
But still may he unfauld his crack 

As lang he's dune. 

* A facetious and valued friend of the author. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 57 

Therefore, when next the Laird ye see, 
Tell him, when in the touzie key, 
A nicht wi' him I wadna gie 

For much, an' mair; 
His graphic crack. Lord, aye tak's me 

Miles thro' the Fair. 

Tell him I wait wi' poother'd wiggie 

The promised hurl in his giggie. 

Some bonnie morn by Bothwell Briggie 

We'se tak' the road, 
An' if w^e dinna rin the riggie, 

'Twill e'en be odd. 

Noo, I maun dicht my sparkin' pen. 
And bring this rhyme-shot to an en'; 
Some nicht, bedeen, I'll mak' a fen' 

To come an' see ye. 
Meantime, in freenlie phrase, till then, 

The Gude be wi' ye ! 



WEE TODDLIN' BREEKU:\IS. 
(A Fond Mither's Heart-Sang.) 

Wee toddlin' breekums 

Waddles but an' ben, 
A big man in his ain wee thochts, 

Like ither aulder men. 
When stumpin', stacher roun' the hoose, 

Or ramplin' on my knee, 
, I aften wonder what on earth 

The bairn 'ill pfrow to be. 



58 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

Wee toddlin' breekums, 

Your daddie — noo awa' — 
Declar d ye'd be a Provost yet, 

Wi' back as braid as twa. 
The noble bump o' bailieship, 

That's only gien to few, 
He ae nicht teuchly graipit fort, 

An' fand it big in you. 

Wee toddlin' breekums. 

When ye're laid owre in sleep, 
What anxious thochts o' ill to come 

A mither's heart will keep. 
I see ye in the future years, 

In spite o' warning words. 
Up on the binmost cellar-taps 

Thrang settin' traps for birds. 

Twa bricks laid langways on the roof,. 

An' ane across ilk end, 
A slate up-hauden by a twig, 

Where birds micht licht an' fend ; 
A seat ahint some auld lum-tile, 

Belyve, a merry roar, 
Wee toddlin' breekums 

Ye've much to answer for. 

Or up an' doun the sunny streets 

I see thee rin for 'oors, 
Thrang followin' the water-cairts 

That lay the simmer stoors, 
Wi' breeks up-buckled owre the knees, 

Stump, stumpin' through the weet, 
Wee toddlin' breekums 

Richt blythe will gang your feet. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 59- 

But there's ae picture whiles comes up 

That gars my bosom thrill — 
I watch thee, wi' new washen face, 

Gaun to the Sabbath schule. 
Life has twa plainly cawkit paths — 

Ane narrow an' ane broad ; 
But wee toddlin' breekums 

Tak' ye the jimpest road. 

Wee toddlin' breekums, 

Your mither's heart is fain 
To clesp ye thus within her airms, 

An ca' 3^e a her ain. 
The horny grip o' hardship's han' 

Will never daunton me — 
Wee toddlin' breekums 

Ye're mair than gold to nie. 

Wee toddlin' breekums, 

The years that bring to thee 
The glory o' thy manhood's prime 

Shall lay the tawse on me. 
But when auld mither's stap, in turn^ 

Is wearin' short an' frail, 
My toddlin' breekums, grown a man. 

Sail cleek me doun the vale. 



MY FIRST NEW HAT. 

There's ae wee blink o' sunny mirth 
Whiles floods this heart o' mine — 

The memory o' my first new hat, 
Whilk cost me sax-an'-nine ; 



6o LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Weel brushed an glossy, sleek and black, 

As ony young tab cat, 
Oh ! prood was I to think't my ain, 

My first new hat. 

That very nicht I brocht it hame, 

I dress'd m sprucest fig ; 
I held mysel' as braw's the best, 

An' thocht me byous big ; 
Syne doon to her wha own'd my heart, 

I took a hurried spat, 
An', wow, but she was gleg to note 

My braw new hat. 

She gat her braws, an' aff we sped 

To view the steerin' toun ; 
My heart tick'd bricht an' happy 'neath 

The glory o' my croon ;- 
Nor sicht nor soun I saw or heard 

But borrow'd grace frae that ; 
A radiant licht it cuist owre a', 

My brent new hat. 

Oor Tib, tho' noo shes auld an' frail, 

An' ye'll her ain word tak', 
Was ance as braw an' trig a lass 

As e'er man's heart-strings brak'; 
But ne'er saw I her couthie face 

Look snugger or mair pat, ' 
Than then it did that nicht I wore 

My guid new hat. 

An' when the Sabbath day cam' roun'. 

Afif to the kirk I spank'd ; 
I aye had notions after guid. 

For whilk the Lord be thank'd. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 6i 

But wasted were the twa guid hours, 

That there I dreamin' sat ; 
It bang'd the sermon a' to bits, 

My bricht new hat. 

It's years an' years sin' syne, an' still 

At hame, or yon't the sea, 
Where'er I've been, my first new hat 

A moral spak' to me. 
An' aft at what I hear and see 

I smile, for weel I wat 
There's mair than me gang gyted ower 

Their first new hat. 



THE WEE DRAP O' DRINK. 

O' a the sorrows and the sins 

That mak' the fash o' life, 
The want o' cash — the loss o' freens — 

The tongues unruly strife — 
The moral slips an' fa's we mak' — 

The plunges ower the brink. 
There's nocht can haud the candle tae 

The wee drap o' drink. 

I've read irt children's bulks, lang syne, 

O' giants great and big, 
Wha slew the simple kintra folks, 

An' ran a bluidy rig ; 
But a' that fell Romance has penn'd, 

Will hardly match, I think. 
The pranks o' that immortal deil. 

The wee drap o' drink. 



62 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

Wi' auld an' young, wi' rich and puir, 

He sits an' cracks richt free, 
Till heart an' soul are daizzled wi' 

The licht that's in his e'e. 
It 's no an open door he needs ; 

Gie him the sma'est chink 
To keek within, an' wha'll keep oot 

The wee drap o' drink. 

When Peace an' Love thegither meet, 

He thrusts himsel' between — 
There 's no a corner o' the earth 

Escapes his speerin' e'en ; 
In braid daylicht, in mirk midnicht. 

He gars the glasses clink, 
Till, moth-like, hundreds bizz aroun' 

The wee drap o' drink. 

I sometimes read the papers thro'. 

When ance my days' toil's dune. 
An aye there's ae black chapter there, 

That croons the lists o' sin. 
The broken heids, and broken hearts, 

Recorded there, I think, 
Rin up an unca bill against 

The wee drap o' drink. 

When fuddlin' Saturday comfes roun', 

That brings the week's bawbees. 
The great enchanter waukens up, 

An' cracks his biggest lees. 
Till a' the tender thochts o' hame 

Beneath his glamour sink — 
It blunts the heart, it blin's the sight, 

The wee drap o' drink. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 63 

Aroun' the board, O ! hear them sing, — 

It pangs us fou o' fun, 
It oils the rusty wheels o' life. 

An' gars them sweetly run ; 
The fashes an' the plagues we bear. 

It scatters in a blink! 
There 's nae enchantment hauf can match 

The wee drap o' drink. 

O ! bricht an' brilliant are the whiles, 

That play beneath his broo; 
An' merry is the wond'Vous sang 

He sings the lang nicht thro'! 
Till full the startled moon keeks in 

Upon the jovial rink ; 
But wha for that wad rise an' leave 

The wee drap o' drink ? 

Let science dust her learned wig 

Wi' formal hems an' haws, 
An' lecture erring heids an' hearts 

On Nature's outraged laws ; 
The Faculty an' Clergy baith 

Indulge a neutral wink. 
So fill your glass an' hand it roun', 

The wee drap o' drink. 

Ay, hand it roun', an' think na o't — 

The mornin's rackin' heid. 
The tuggin' teeth o' fell remorse, 

That mak' the vitals bleed ! 
Ay, hand it roun', but tent ye, lads, 

When ye begin to wink, 
Tak' care it doesna trip ye up, 

The wee drap o' drink. 



64 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

A thousan' years ago, or mair, 

Beneath the Grecian vine, 
Anacreon snugly sat an' sung. 

An' sipp'd the bluid-red wine, 
Till he an his besotted muse 

Fell ae day owre the brink ! 
The flowV o' genius pales beneath 

The wee drap o' drink. 

But somehow, be it sune or late, 

The world will learn, I houp. 
That nocht but sorrow e'er cam' oot 

The publican's gill-stoup ; 
An' they wha bauldest spak its praise,, 

Will then confess, I think, 
The w^orld wad better be withoot 

Its wee drap o' drink. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN YOUNG, 

Author of " Hamely Pictures in Versel' etc. 

Dear brither bard, your silence lang. 
Has gien my heartie mony a stang — 
Thinks I, there's surely something wrang^ 

Wi' Johnnie's muse. 
Or else we'd hae a hearty sang 

Whiles in the '' News!' "" 

Sae I was mair than or'nar glad. 
To read yon hamely, jinglin' blaud, 
On ^'Bairnie Nell"— I think it's ca'd— 

A heartsome strain ; 
Lang may her mither an her dad 

Craw owre their wean. 

* The Christian News newspaper, whose columns Mr 
Young's contributions in verse occasionally enriched. 



INIISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 65 

I'm no much gien to soundin' praise, 
But haith ! I wad be in a craze, 
Gif I could read your cheery lays 

Devoid o' pleasure; 
Sic native blinks o' genius' rays 

Are aye a treasure. 

Of a' oor local singing train, 
Beside your gifted sel', there's nane 
Can sing a hamely fireside strain, 

Wi' sweeter birr, 
Your verse croons owre the auld hearth-stane^ 

Like Pusseys purr. 

It's no the glitter an' the glare, 
O' Latin words an' heathen lair. 
That tak's a chieFs admirin' stare, 

But jist a touch 
O' Nature's colour, here an there, 

That pleaseth much. 

An' tent me, douce and honest Johnny, 
My guid, leal-hearted, rhymin' cronie, 
Ye sing as sweet a lilt as ony — 

Sae rhyme it thrang, 
An' scatter wide your sang-buds bonnie, 

Wi' heartie pang. 

As for myser, I'm no owermuch 

Disturbed wi' the poetic itch ; 

I gied my Muse an extra stretch, 

Ae luckless morn. 
An aye sin' syne the fickle witch, 

Has me foresworn. 

E 



66 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

But that, as sma'est loss I tak' it, 
The jaud, at best, was gey boobackit; 
An', worse than that, her head was crackit 

An' gien to nod ; 
Her freenship, since she choose to brak it, 

May tak' the road. 

Like road-stoor, here and thither wafted, 
Owre fancy's sea I lang hae drifted, 
Whiles quite cast doun an' whyles uplifted; 

But blaw the whistle ! — 
I carena hoo the scenes are shifted, 

Ae single thrissel. 

Let ithers dim' the braes o' fame 
Wi' eager step an' soul aflame. 
An' win a title an' a name — 

They're welcome to it ; 
I'll chowe contentment's cud at hame, 

An' never rue it. 

The sea, the sky, the hills be mine, 
Wi' soughin' woods an' flower-beds fine, 
Whaur trottin' burnies twist an' twine, 

Wi' singin' swirl ; 
It's there true feeling and divine 

The bluid does dirl. 

Oor dear auld mither Nature's face, 
Whaur licht an' shade ilk ither chase, 
Has aye a timely shower o' grace 

For vacant hearts ; 
The cheery hope — the smile of peace 

She aye imparts. 



MISCELLANEOUS rOE.MS. 67 

Sae, when owre fieP and hillside green, 
The April hares are whiddin' seen, 
We'll tak' a jaunt my rhymin' frien' 

Some bonnie day. 
An' gather precious gear, I ween, 

For mony a lay. 

Meantime, on bended knees I beg 
A blessing baith for you and Meg; 
Lang may ye dowfly shake your leg, 

Wi hearty fling, 
Still croodlin' snugly— croose an' clegg— 

'Neath fortune's wing. 



BLYTHE JOHNNY MAUT. 

(A Saturday Afternoon Photograph.) 

As I gaed trudgin' hame ae nicht, 

Wi' twa pounds in my pocket — 
That I had gotten for my wark, 

Tho' sair fort I'd been troket ; 
Jist richt fornenst a Public-hoose 

Blythe Johnny Maut he met me, 
An' wi' a warm wink o' the e'e 

Before the board he set me. 

Noo Johnny Maut, the folks declare, 

Is jist a rale guid fellow ; 
His hearty crack is bauld and bricht. 

His soul baith rich an' mellow. 
It's said he carries in his pouch 

A box o' saw for a sairs ; 
An' they wha wi' him sort declare 

He laug-hs an' winks awa' cares. 



6S LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

But Conscience ever nips my lugs, 

An' swears his crack's no canny ; 
But Conscience whiles, the maist o's ken, 

Tells tales as auld's my granny. 
An' if we snoov'd to Conscience aye, 

We'd never but be prayin' — 
E'en kirk-gaun folks themsel's at times 

The wrang road whiles will stray in. 



Sae I baud Conscience tak' the door, 

An' leave me to my fancy; 
But Conscience still cheep'd in my lug — 

^^ John Maut's a chiel unchancy." 
'^Aweel," quo' I, ''sae let it be, 

But be na rash to blame him ; 
There's some teetotal folks, ye ken, 

That oot o' place misname him." 

Sae I gied Johnny Maut the wink. 

An' doun we sat thegither. 
Quo I, '' Noo, Johnny hoo to act 

I'm in a deid-sweer swither ; 
For some there are that sair misca', 

Whilst ithers hecht an' roose ye ; 
I'm half-ways gi'en to tak' your part, 

An' half-ways to abuse ye. 

**Fu' mony a plack I've spent on drink, 

An' mony a fa ye've gien me ; 
At a' 'oors airm-in-airm wi' you 

Dooce, dacent folks hae seen me. 
An' weel ye ken that's no the gaet 

Us Christian folks sood travel — 
A nicht wi' you whiles ties a knot 

The de'il could scarce unravel." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 69 

"Tuts, man," quo' Johnny, "sneck your dram, 

An' cease your cUsh-ma-clavers ; 
Your crack, Til label 't — TJiis side ttp; 

With care; Teetotal Jiaivers. 
Come gi'es your hand, my auld cock-Jaird, 

Let's hear hoo yeVe been fairin' ; 
It 's months since we last met, an', feth ! 

Oor freenship needs repairin'." 

Then up he cowp't the mutchkin stoup^ 

An' filled a beaded bicker ; 
First ane, then tzi^a, an' maybe three, 

Till I felt wondrous sicker. 
Teetotaldom ! I crack'd my thoombs, 

It wasna worth a docken ; 
But Johnny Maut was jist the chap 

A roostit throat to slocken. 

An' as the blythesome 'oors stole on. 

His crack went rich an' rarely ; 
Whilst I clear'd oot my throat, an' sang 

" The wind that shakes the barley." 
An' on his happy face, sae thick 

The cluster'd smiles were glancin', 
That wi' the rich wink o' his e'e 

He pat me mair than dancin'. 

An' when we raise, he took my hand, 

An' warmly clapp't my shouther ; 
Quo' he — ''Ye see, I'm kindly-soul'd. 

Though, maybe, something throu'ther.'' 
"That's true," quo' I, "ye're sair abused, 

An' muckle they misname ye ; 
But sic a buirdly chap as you, 

They'll bark lang ere they lame ye." 



70 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

As hame I stee'rd that nicht, I claimed 

The haill breadth o' the pavement ; 
An when I reached my ain stairheid, 

I thocht it an achievement. 
Till daylicht's daw', across the hearth 

I like a brock lay snorin' ; 
An heard in dreams the wifie's voice 

My sins against me scorin'. 

Next mornin', when I warsl'd up, 

I search'd out ilka pocket, 
But de'il a saxpence I cood get. 

Though I for't had been chokit. 
Blythe Johnny Maut, the leein' loon. 

Had robb'd me ere I witted ; 
Then Conscience on me plied her tawse, 

An ticht her gyve-airns fitted. 

Wi' Johnny Maut, I voo'd alood, 

Nae mair wad I be trokin' ; 
To ser\'e a freen in sic a way, 

Was jist doonricht provokin'. 
The wifie she my aith o'erheard. 

An' pray'd I lang micht keep it ; 
The moral dyke o' whilk resolve 

I houp I'll never dreep it. 



THE WRANG SIDE O' THE DOOR. 
(Delicately dedicated to those whom tJie Shoe Fits.) 

As, day by day, we fecht oor way 

Amang the stoors o' life, 
An' suffer, for the bite o' bread, 

The temper-thraw^in' strife, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 71 

We sometimes see deceit an' pride, 

The winnin' numbers score, 
While worth an' parts are forced to tak', 

The wrang side o' the door. 

There's some wha deftly counterfeit, 

The warm an' freenly heart, 
But, Judas-like, ahint oor backs. 

They act the dirty part. 
An' I cood name jist ane or twa, 

An*, maybe, you a score, 
Wha, an' the truth was kenn'd, wad get 

The wrang side o' the door. 

Sic men as these, no bother'd much 

Wi' either heart or brain. 
Enact the quately cunning part. 

An' lee like showers o' rain ; 
Their words wi' oily sauvity, 

Are gilded o'er and o'er. 
Lest Truth should some day gi'e their lees. 

The wrang side o' the door. 

But here's to Manhood's noblest flower, 

An' may it blossom lang ! 
The manly heart wad rather burst, 

Than dae a brither wrang. 
An' let us hope, that sune or late. 

The braid warld o'er an' o'er, 
The honest heart will some day win, 

The richt side o' the door. 



72 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

THE BRAE O' LIFE. 
A Cloudy Retrospect. 

Come lay aside your seam the nicht, 
An' sit ye doon, my auld guidwife, 
An' hear me lilt a rhyme upon 
The steep an' crooded brae o' life ; 
For though we've aye been at the foot, 
Oor hearts, I think, are hale an' weel. 
To thoosands mae beside oorsel's 
The brae o' life's been tough tae spiel. 

Sae, never mind, but sit ye doon, 
We'el haud a fireside crack a wee 
On what we aiblins micht ha'e been, 
An' what we've seen, and yet may see. 
I min' it weel, when first we twa 
Resolved to meet the warl's strife. 
My hopes were high, I thocht to scale 
The tap-stane o' the brae o' life. 

But fortune mend the slippery stanes ! 
That pave the hill frae broo to base ; 
Wi' mony a slip, an' fash, an' fa', 
I wasted youth's resplendent days. 
An' noo auld age comes hirplin' up 
An' hoasts, an' asks me hoo I feel, 
I ferly much, guidwife, what maks 
The brae o' life sae hard to spiel. 

There's maybe something in the brain, 
An' something in the finger-ends. 
But muckle mair in chance, I think, 
An' in the upward heeze o' friends ; 
But ae thing's certain, sure, an' clear, 
That mony a clever, noble chiel' 
Gie's up the race, an' swith declares 
Life's brae's — Auld Nick an' a' to spiel ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Observe yon spring aff manhood's tree, 
Bejewell'd bricht, a dandy quite, 
He walks straight up the crooded steep 
Without a single fash or flyte. 
E'en let him gang ! the laddie's sire's 
A toon's-clerk, or some bailie chiel'. 
There's aye a favour'd few that find 
The brae o' life richt smooth to spiel. 

There's Willie Miller* — best o' bards, 
An' formed o' nature's finest clay — 
Wha sang some thirty years ago 
His sweet '* Wee Willie Winkie" lay. 
Ask him what thinks he o' life's road, 
An' hoo the shanks at threescore feel. 
To him, I fear, the brae o' life 
Has been baith rough an' steep to spiel. 



* Alas ! since the above was penned, William Miller, the 
sweetest and pawkiest of Scottish Lyrists, has gone to his 
immortal rest. Although living and toiling in comparative 
obscurity during the latter years of his life, it is refreshing to 
know that the Glasgow press did latterly ample justice to tlie 
aged bard's genius and character, public attention having been 
called to the poet's fatal illness by H. B. Macphail, Esq., a 
gentleman who had already evinced an unselfish solicitude for 
the welfare of local genius, by extending towards the unfortun- 
ate, but highly-gifted James Macfarlan, such acts of kindness 
as literally followed him into the tomb. A monument to Wm. 
Miller is about to be erected, I understand, in the City Necro- 
polis, where some of the best dust of Glasgow already reposes, 
and where not a few of the late bard's compeers in song — the 
old Whistlebiiikians — silently sleep. On another page will be 
found a slight, though sincere, tribute to Mr Miller's homely 
bnt deliditful 2:enius. 



74 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Or higher still, there Burns himsel', 
The master o' the Scottish lyre, 
Whose song-enthrall'd immortal hearty 
Glow'd wi" the heaven-lighted fire. 
E'en he met mony a fell mischance, 
An' keen the warl's geeks did feel. 
It's no the man o' biggest brain, 
That best the brae o' life can spiel. 

In bygane times the weaver sat 
An' drave his shuttle as he sang, 
Or delved his kail-yard in the sun, 
Or wi' the parson argued thrang. 
But noo, by jing ! frae licht to mirk, 
A man's brains never aff the reel. 
An' aye, frae day to day, life's brae 
Is gettin' waur an' waur to spiel. 

I.ikenna' what the end will be, 

But ae thing's certain — rest we need. 

The warl' some morning, sune or late, 

Will wauken wi' a bizzin' heid. 

What warl' wad staun't ? I'd like to ken,. 

Swing, swingin' like a foursome reel, 

Wi' millions warslan' up the brae, 

Intent the giddy peak to spiel. 

They talk o' modern days, an' brag 
O' what the power o' steam has dune, 
An' hoo the nobly-engin'd ship. 
Gangs rushin' thro' the adverse win'. 
But let them brag and loudly blaw 
About their mighty steam an' steel, 
To us, guidwife, an mony mair. 
Life's brae grows daily waur to spiel. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 75 

The olden times restore to me 

The rich auld day's that's by an' gane, 

When first I bounded owre the muirs, 

Wi' dancin' bluid, and birshn' brain ; 

The floo'ers looked fresher then, mair bricht 

An' blue the skies, than now I see ! 

But at the foot we've wrocht and swat, 

An' at the weary foot we'll dee. 



HECH ! ME, THE DAY. 

(Composed under the broad and philosophic shadow 
of a Kilmarnock bonnet.) 

When sour misfortune's gurly broo 

Puts on a drumlie froun. 
An' presses wi' a leaden wecht 

The heart-strings geylie doun, 
The canniest way to thole the fash, 

I've heard the gutchers say, 
Is jist to welcome't a', an' mair 

Wi', Hech ! me, the day. 

When that auld dyvour — Nickie-ben 

Tak s trade fast by the lugs, 
An' gies things sic a backward thraw 

As drives a' to the dougs, 
While we hing dowie owre the fire 

Indulgin thochts o' wae, 
The guidwife, glegger, snecks the fash 

Wi', Hech ! me, the day. 



76 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Or if, when pechin' up the hill, 

Oor angry feelings boil, 
An' bleed beneath the thorns that blur 

The noble crown o' Toil. 
To lift the heart abune the grudge 

A wee drap aiblins may ; 
But for an auld Scotch antidote 

Try, Hech ! me, the day. 

As roun' an' roun' the wheel o' life 

Gangs swiggin thro' the year, 
It lea s some sorrow at the door 

O' ilka lodger here. 
We may get sun-blinks noo an' then, 

But doun mischanter's brae 
We a' maun trudge, an' chowe the leek 

O', Hech ! me, the day. 

To jouk the clutch o' ruin's grup 

Some jump the river brig. 
An' leave the warld their warldly a' — 

A hat an' floatin' wig. 
An' some pack up their duds an' loup 

The law, as gleg's a flae. 
While they'd grow baihe-fat at hame 

Owre, Hech ! me, the day. 

But, hark ye, ten o'clock or mair 

Is ringin' thro' the toun. 
An' sleep, the weary god, begins 

To press my e'elids doun. 
An' since my rhyme's worn to the bane 

I think I'll close my lay, 
An' ca' the nail in a' I've said 

Wi', Hech ! me the day. 



MISCELLAXEOUS POEMS. 77 

AULD JOHN SHANKS'S NODDY 

''Another fearful railway collision occurred yesterday at 
Woodhouse Junction, near Sheflield," &c., &c. — See Daily 
Mail, Saturday, Oct. 19, 1872. 

Auld locomotion's twa-legg'd gig, 

Since steam-power kick'd the dowp o't, 
Has flitted faur benorth the hills 

The haill stap an' rowp o't. 
An', hech ! sic steamin' screamin' days 

Micht weel bumbaze a body, 
Gie me a sax-mile stretch o' road 

On auld John Shanks's noddy. 

Your whusslin' valves an' rushin' wheels 

Gude save's ! they're no jist canny; 
Tm much i' the same mind as her — 

My auld lang-winded granny. 
She jibes your rummle-tummle jaunts ; 

An' when she gangs abroad, aye, 
Jist grups a stickie in her han' 

An yokes auld Shanks's noddy. 

Nae doot, your saxty miles an hour 

Is something worth the boastin', 
But whyles o' that sic wark is dune 

As sets the law a Iwasthi . 
But gi'es the toon besouth oor backs, 

An inn ayont the road, aye. 
An' what can match the hamely jog 

O' Shanks's safe-gaun noddy } 

Life's darkest dreams can noo be read 
'Neath science' flashin' port-licht, 

We'll sune can journey to the mune 
An' back within a fortnicht. 



78 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Jist mount a lang electric wire, 
An' some wee mune-licht body 

Next mornin', swith, will help ye aff 
Your telegraphic noddy. 

An' when ye're up amang the moons 

Let folks o' note be ca'd on, 
Speer weel hoo Mars an' Jupiter 

An ither stars are haudin' ; 
For orra men an' things are seen 

When daft folks gang abroad, aye ; 
That dune, we then may tak' the wheels 

Frae afif John Shanks's noddy. 



THE WA'-GAUN O' THE BARD. 

^Iemorial Verses suggested by the Death of 
William Miller, the Nursery Poet. 

Dust unto dust — a simple grave 

Enshrouds the poet — dead ! 
Where tender flow'rs an' grasses sweet 

Shall make his breast their bed. 
Nor birds nor flow'rs could well receive, 

Than he, a gentler ward. 
O many, many hearts shall mourn 

The wa'-gaun o' the bard. 

Sweet as the hedge-rose weet w4' dew, 

The blinks o' love he sang, 
Wi' sunny feet they wander wild 

The heart-strings thro' amang ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 79 

An' many an echo wauken'd there, 

In pensive moments heard, 
Shall bless his gentle muse, and weep 

The wa'-gaun o' the bard. 

O lov'd an' widely loving soul ! 

O heart o' sweetest worth ! 
Rever'd be aye the simple spDt 

Where rests thy head in earth ! 
May long the bliss o' birds an' flow'rs 

Thy sleep delight an' guard ! 
While we, wi' vacant hearts, regret 

The wa'-craun o' the bard. 




So LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 



Lyrical Pieces. 



BREEKS O' HODDEN GREY. 

(Inscribed^ with manly respect, to my Compeers in 
Toil, the Engineers of the Clyde.) 

No pompous sound of idle words, 

No cunning ring of rhyme, 
Struck from some gorgeous lyre of dreams 

To thrill the ears of Time, 
Shall still our earnest hearts to-day ; 

Be ours the nobler pride 
To champion the brows of toil, 

By grimey sweat-drops dyed — 
The million'd mass, who, with the sun, 

To daily toil arise ; 
Whose volum'd smoke and thunder-sounds^ 

Begrim and shake the skies. 
The tinsel stamps of rank and wealth, 

In God's eye, what are they ? 
Let's sing the honest men who wear 

The breeks o' hodden grey. 

These are the men of skill and craft, 

And roughly moral'd worth, 
Who melt and make, and build and breaks 

The mighty things of earth ; 
Who stand the flaming forge before, 

And on the shivering air 
Let loose the flashing tiger — Steam — 

From out his burning lair. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 8i 

O, never to the vaulted heavens 

Arose a grander song 
Than bare-armed labour smiting deep 

His thunder-throated gong. 
No triumphs born of blood we claim ; 

But ours the nobler fray 
Of manly toil — the men who wear 

The breeks o' hodden grey. 



Ho ! strain your eyes, and far behold, 

As in wild dreams of wine, 
The steel-ribb'd engine flash and leap 

And roar along the line. 
God ! What impassion'd power is this, 

That, blotch'd with fire and grime, 
Beats down the hills of labour, 

And contests the flight of Time ? 
And who are they who shape its course. 

Through rock-embattled shires, 
Who bind and build its ribs of steel, 

And feed its throbbing fires. 
Who loose its panting lungs of steam, 

And urge and guide its way ? 
Who, but the rough-spun men who wear 

The breeks o' hodden grey. 



Or in the ringing yards and docks. 

That line our noble Clyde, 
Whose engin'd monarchs regally 

A hundred oceans ride. 
And bind the nations of the earth,. 

In commerce' golden bands ; 
Giving to peoples far apart, 

The grasp of hearts and hands. 

F 



^2 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

See, where she lies, the mighty ship, 

All ready for the leap ! 
Hurrah! the wedo^e is struck away. 

She smokes into the deep. 
Heavens ! how she strains the groaning chains 

That grandly her upweigh. 
Now, shout ye, for the men who wear 

The breeks o' hodden grey. 



Let Genius, with her master voice, 

In floods of starry song, 
Enrich the soul with spoils of thought, 

And trance the raptur'd throng ; 
But nobler music meets the ears, 

And stirs the blood of men. 
Where ringing hammers throb and dance, 

Than roll of lyric pen. 
And grander fire-gems leap to life. 

Than all the vaunted stars, 
W^en, crash, the mighty steam blow falls, 

And welds the burning bars. 
The golden-thoughted flash of brain. 

Applaud it as ye may, 
Is chafl"" beside the men who wear 

The breeks o' hodden grey. 



Then, hush'd for aye, be idle words, 

Or fancied ring of rhyme, 
Struck from the lofty lyre of dreams 

To storm the ears of Time; 
To kindred souls leave tawdry themes ; 

Be ours the nobler pride 
To champion the brows of toil. 

By honest sweat-drops dyed — 



LYRICAL PIECES. Ss 

The million'd mass, who, with the sun, 

To daily toil arise ; 
Whose volum'd smoke and thunder-sound 

Begrim and shake the skies. 
The tinsel stamps of rank and wealth. 

In God's eye, what are they ? 
But ring the air for those who wear 

The breeks o' hodden grey. 



SCOTLAND'S LAURELL'D THREE. 
(Wallace, Kxox, and Burns.) 

Auld Scotland, wi' her sturdy heart, 

As tough as hempen twine. 
Surveys whiles wi' a mither's pride, 

Her fame-emblazon'd line ; 
And ever wi' a dauntless brow, 

Her eye, bold-flashin' turns 
To her heroic f/iree^ my lads — 

To Wallace, Knox, and Burns. 



The Jirs^y he dared the tyrant's power, 

And wi' his tartan plaid. 
For dear auld Scotland's sake, his bed 

Upon her hillsides made ; 
And wild and well that gallant tale. 

The Scottish heart enthrals, 
How he thrash'd haughty Cressingham, 

By Stirling's banner'd walls. 



84 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

The second, wi' his brawny fist, 

The wooden image smote, 
And on the nation's shrivell'd heart. 

The Christ of worship wrote, 
And grandly his disciples dared. 

The freeman's holy fight — 
The Bible in their left hand clasp'd, 

The sword-hilt in their ricrht. 



And lastly, regal Robert Burns, 

One of the million'd throng, 
Inhaled the breeze of God, bare-brow'd, 

Upon the hills of song ; 
And, lo ! at mention of his name, 

The stirring crowds of men 
Walk proudlier 'neath the noble thrall, 

Of his immortal pen. 

O, never from the scroll of fame, 

Nor from the light of da}', 
If we have Scottish hearts shall these — 

Our kings — be torn away ; 
Nay, brothers, nay, but rather pray. 

Upon the nation's brow 
The hand of Time, from age to age. 

May write their names as now. 

Thank God ! the heart of Scotland yet, 

Is with her valiant past. 
When freedom fought with tyranny, 

And dared death to the last ; 
And while the heather clothes our hills, 

The thistle guards our plains. 
The fame of her immortal tJircc, 

Shall thrill our Scottish veins. 



LYRICIAL PIECES. 8$ 

MINSTREL ROBIN. 

AX AXXIVERSARY TRIBUTE. 



Our Monarch's hindmost year but ane 

Was five-an'-twenty days begun ; 
'Twas then a blast o' Januar win' 
Blew handsel in on Rohm.— B^frns. 



A hundred years by-gane, or mair, 

Auld canty Mither Nature, 
Sat at the spinning-wheel o' life, 

Wi' fun-enamell'd feature. 
Whir-ir, whir-ir, tu-whoo, tu-whoo, 

Richt blythely bumm'd the bobbin. 
An' spun a sturdy stalk o' hemp, 

An' wha was this but — Robin. 

O, Robin was a famous wicht, 

An' lang may Scotland daut him ; 

Gude bless the day he saw the licht, 
An' shame fa' them wad faut him. 



A nobler gift it gied to men, 

That brucket " auld clay biggin','' 
Than e'er was born in princely ha', 

Or hames o' lordly riggin'. 
When Nature stamps the man a king, 

Nae crown needs she to gie him ; 
She clasps the trade-mark on his brow, 

An' sends her patent wi' him. 

Ay, Robin was a sterling wicht, 
An' Scotland weel may daut him; 

A better never saw the licht. 

Though unco folks wad faut him. 



$6 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

What though he thraw'd the law a wee, 

An' bann'd the reverend gentry ; 
His breast wi' feehngs rich an' warm, 

Was aye a weel-stow'd pantry. 
The heart that mourn'd the hameless mouse^ 

An' sang the simple daisy, 
Shall proudly cap the tapmost stane 

On Fame's immortal braes aye. 

For Robin was nae common wiclit, 
An' Scotland loves to daut him ; 

He dipped her tartan plaid in licht, 
An' whaur s the loon wad faut himi^ 

Heaven scatters broad her gifts to men, 

Her prophets, an' her preachers ; 
But while we honour them, let s bless 

Oor ballad-makin' teachers. 
Your philosophic facts and forms 

Put plain folks in a swither ; 
But blessin's on the heartie sangs 

That weld us a' thegither. 

An' Robin was a ballad wicht. 

Faith, puir folks weel may dauthim; 

He sang the wTangs o' labour richt. 
An' wha wad dare to faut him. 

Where'er by foreign flood or fell 

The Scottish footstep wanders ; 
Bet whaur Niagara taks loup, 

Or classic Rhine meanders. 
Abune their voice, an' far within 

His benmost nook o' feeHn', 
The pensive flow o' Bonnie Doon 

An' Auld Langsyne is stealin'. 



LYRICAL PIECES. Sj ' 1 

Ay, Robin was a singin' wicht, ' 

An' lasses lo'ed to daut him ; j 

He dyed their locks in ballad licht, ] 

An' deil a sumph could faut him. ■ 

O, broadly o'er the earth is blown, 

By Fame's immortal tabor, 
The magic name o' him wha gave 

The laureird wreath to labour. j 

An' lang may Scotland next her heart ! 

His sturdy manhood cherish, ^ 

An' lash the hirelings hip and thigh | 

Wha'd see her honour perish. ! 

For Robin was a noble wicht, 

An' weel may Scotland daut him; 

He sang the wrangs o' mankind richt^ ; 

An' Time shall never faut him. 



SCOTLAND AN' HER THISTLE-TAP. 



I turn'd the weeder clips aside, 

An' spared the thistle dear. — Burns. 



The rose may blow on English ground. 

An' green on Erin's Isle 
The shamrock spread her spray of leaves^ 

A symbol o' the soil ; 
But we, the sons o' valiant sires, 

As they heroic did. 
For Scotland an' her thistle-tap 

Shall aye stand guid. 



^8 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

O, rare upon her mountain heights 

The healthy heather grows, 
An' broad upon the bracin' breeze 

A sturdy fragrance throws ; 
An' keen her roar an' pour o' floods 

Heroic twangs the bluid — 
For Scotland an' her thistle-tap 

Wha wadna stan' cruid ? 



On Bannockburn's immortal field, 

An' God-inspired Drumclog, 
Our ancestors gied tyranny 

A w^eel-remembered shog ; 
An the high pride that then was ours, 

To-day can ill be hid — 
For Scotland an her thistle-tap 

We'll aye stan' guid. 

A hundred years ago, or mair, 

A kintra lad was born, 
Wha sang o' manhood's kingly worth, 

An' held its faes in scorn. 
The Muse, when first she gifted him, 

Said, " Rab ! noo, mind your muid ; 
For Scotland's thistle-tap o' tow 

Ye'll aye stand guid." 

An' aye the w^ords he bore in mind, 

An' on the brow o' time 
Endorsed the glory o' her name 

Wi' radiant stars o' rhyme. 
An' weel the w^orld's tinsel shows 

His halesome muse withstuid ; 
For Scotland an' her thistle-flower 

He aye cam' guid. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 89 

Awa' wi' denty chirms o' love, 

Whase chime the fancy thrills ; 
Let 's sing the floods that leap the crags 

An' roar amang the hills. 
The hearts, gainst tyrant wrangs wad stan* 

A rampant pyramid ; 
Sic hearts, for Scotland's sturdy richts, 

Shall aye stan' guid. 



HABBIE, THE LAIRD. 

Blythe Habbie, the Laird, cam' afit doun the glen 

Ae nicht when the March win's were blawin'; 
He wasna the youngest nor steyest o' men. 

An' ill tholed the blast an the snawin'. 
His plooghin' an' seedin' ayont the glen heid 

At their briskest he managed to plan, aye, 
Sae glegly as gied him an hours's guid remeid 

To push his daft suit wi' young Annie, 
Auld fule, 

The toast o' the parish — sw^eet Annie. 



The munewasdroon'd oot,an' the snaw-swirlin' storm 

Whussel't roun' him aye wilder and thicker, 
But Habbie jist grippit his stick the mair firm. 

An' planted his fitstaps the sicker. 
Nae idle romancin's ere bother d his heid ; 

Ghaists and deid-lichts ! gang tell't to your grannie. 
There wasna a bogle frae Clydeside to Tweed 

Cood fricht him when gaun to see Annie; 
Stan' back ! 

He \\'as fu' o' heroicks owre Annie. 



90 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

" I'm lithesome an' blythesome," the auld bodie 
thocht, 
As wastwards he teuchly crapt till her, 
An', hooly, sirs, hooly, he wi' him had brocht 

A stocking weel, padded wi' siller; 
For lovers, the Laird voo'd, wha courted loof-bare, 

A chance o' discomfiture ran, aye ; 
So he brocht wi'm — croon pieces — twa guid pounds^ 
an' mair. 
To buy a silk dress to young Annie. 

Ha ! ha ! 
*Twad coft him a kiss frae sweet Annie. 



The gloamin' owre nature her grey plaid had flang 

As Habbie cam' hobblin' in view, O. 
Baldy White has gaen under the bed wi' a bang, 

An' I houp, Laird, your Annie's quite true, O. 
But in staps blythe Habbie, and sits himsel' doun. 

An', by an' bye, quately and canny 
He scarts oot his stockin clean o' the last croon, 

An' hands owre the haill o't to Annie. 
My fegs ! 

The best micht s^ans: sib noo to.Annie. 



'^ An when will we buckle — us t^^a.^" asked the Laird; 

*' Name the day ye'U come east to my ingle." 
In his snug place o' hiding the crack Baldy heard, 

An' his heart-strings for mischief 'gan tingle; 
So he crap frae his hidin' close on the Laird's chair. 

An' nearer an' nearer he wan, aye; 
Then, 'Odsake ! he heighted him high in the air, 

An' gied him the left wheel frae Annie, 
Clean roun', 

An' clinkit himsel' doun by Annie. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 91 

The Laird gat his bannet, an' yont the door stap 

Flourished freely his stick like a hero, 
An' swore he'd yet gar it owre Baldy play rap — 

His wrath he micht lang hae a fear o', 
An hame as he toddled, the auld bodie sang — 

" Hech me ! but this stappin's no canny; 
The mune sail blink bonnie the neist time I gang 

Wi' a stockin' o' siller to Annie 
The romp ! 

The back o' my hand to ye, Annie." 



WILLIE'S THE WAUR O'T. 
An O^YRE True Sang. 

The nicht it was Tysday, the third o' the week, 

The season was simmer, and weel thro' the faur o't^ 
When Willie's guid wifie burst in the door cheek, 
Cryin' " rin for your lives, weans, yer faither s the 
waur o't, 

Awfu' the waur o't. 
Rin for your lives, weans, yer faither's the waur o't." 



Noo Willie, guid chiel, was the smith o' the glen, 

His shop was a wee sky, aud he was the star o't; 
An' when he forgather d wi' sociable men. 

He sometimes crap hamewards a wee thocht the 
waur o't, 

Canty the waur o't ; 
Cam' happin' hame late o' nichts, stoorie the waur o't 



92 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

When Willie was fuddled, his tongue waggit free. 
Gae search ancient Scotland — the near and the 
faur o t, 
There wasna anither could hammer like he, 

When straucht in his senses, or e'en when the 
waur o't. 

Briskly the waur o't, 
His blows fell like lichtnin' when three gills the 
waur o't. 

But Willie's guid wifie was nae timid lamb. 

She rail'd at the drink, an' the fash breedin' scaur o't. 

Sayin' " deil to the day that ye get a bit dram, 

But ye maun come rowin' hame bockin the waur o't; 

Lip-fou the waur o't. 
Roarin' an' singin" fou, tichtly the waur o't. 



^^ Shame on yer wrang doings, ye stippit auld fule, 
Yer honour's gaen doun an' yer nail'd to the spaur o't; 

Frae the rise o' the year to the fa' o't at yule. 

It's naething but drinkin' till ye are the waur o't. 
Thochtless the waur o't — 

Tasting an' tipplin' till rag tag the waur o't." 



'^ Noo wheesht ye, noo wheesht ye, ye stoorie auld 
dame, 
An' blame na the dram, nor the fash breedin* 
scaur o't; 
That nicht I gat married an' cleekit ye hame, 

A' that week I was drinkin' and mortal the waur o't; 

Blin'-fou the waur o't. 
Faith ! ye buckled me nicely when I was the waur o't." 



LYRICAL PIECES. 93 

BRING THE BODIE BEN. 

A laird comes coortin' here the nicht, 

To Avale frae oot the lave 
A mountain flower to be his bride — 

A laird o' means — Gude save ! 
He's auld a wee, but hale and fier, 

Scarce fourscore, savin' ten; 
Then, steer aboot, ye stoorie jauds, 

And bring the bodie ben. 

Your warld o' love withoot the wee 

Bit yellow coin, I troo. 
Is but a thorny wilderness 

To stoit an' stagger thro' ; 
Then seek ye aye a stockit purse, 

An' bienly-clad fire-en'. 
Gae brush aboot an' redd the house. 

An bring the bodie ben. 

The laird, they say, has taurry sheep, 

And owsen by the score, 
Wi' acres braid o' fallow land. 

An' corn-riggs to the fore ; 
An', hech ! it 's no a common day, 

A laird comes here, ye ken ; 
Then get your braws, an' look your best, 

And bring the bodie ben. 

Ca Bessie in frae 'mang the kye, 

An' pouther up her hair. 
An' stick her newest kame abun't, 

A hand-braid high an' mair; 
For she 's a stieve an' sturdy lass. 

Wad mak' a noble fen ; 
Then busk her weel, steer up the fire, 

And brins^ the bodie ben. 



94 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

They brocht him ben, an' sat him doun 

Before a weel-spread buird 
(O richtly gangs the kebbuck doon 

That 's hansell'd wi' a laird ; 
And richly reams the jug o' ale, 

When cantilee, ye ken, 
There 's hiding at the bottom o't, 

A lairdie's but-an'-ben). 

The laird he made himself at hame, 

An' drank his liquor weel, 
An' aye he cut the tither slice 

Frae aff the kebbuck heel ; 
Ay, Bess was braw, and Meg an' Kate 

Were won'drous sweet ; but then 
The laird had ither fish to fry 

When he cam' stappin' ben. 

Though Bess was braw, an' Meg was fair, 

An' Kate was orra sweet. 
There wasna ane o' a' the three 

Could move the laird a wheet. 
He's birl'd a guinea in his luif 

An' won the wale o' ten, 
An's awa wi' the youngest flower 

To deck his but-an'-ben. 

Noo, what will a' the young lads dae 
Sin' Nannie 's taen the laird ? 

To slicht sae mony dautin' hearts, 
Was e'er the like o't heard ? 

An' jilted Watty o' the hill- 
When he comes yont the glen. 

My fegs ! he'll scauld the auld guidwife 
That brocht the bodie ben. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 95 

THE WIFE-BEGUNKIT MAN. 
A Fireside Lilt. 

I wonder what was in my held 

The day that I gat married ; 
My reason, sure, was daupit-blin', 

Sae far the jaud miscarried. 
To dree the fashions plagues o' hame 

When work is owre I carenae ; 
But aye it's '' Sandy, steer the pat, 

Or tak' the greetin' bairnie." 

O, it's haud the wean ! steer the pat ! 

That's what it's late an' early ; 
'Tween stoorie-woorie wife an' weans, 

Wow ! but I'm corner'd fairly. 

The day that I gaed stumpin' up 

To Hymen's kittle altar 
My heart kept up an even beat 

Withoot ae fash or falter. 
'' O, it's love will tak' a turn an' cool," 

Sang my far-seein' grannie, 
•'^ Then, Sandy, dinna reest an' loup, 

But stap it oot fou cannie." 

Och ! haud the wean ! steer the pat ! 

What love can lang endure it .'^ 
To keep baith wean an' spurkle gaun 

Sic fash wad feckly sour it. 

I little thocht that I wad leeve 

To thole sic sturt an' strifie, 
The tichtest knot a man e'er tied 

Is takin' o' a wifie. 



96 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

The law mak's guid the kittle knot, 

The minister he chows it, 
An' sic a fankled heid is wrocht, 

The deil he couldna louse it. 

Here, haud the wean ! steer the pat I 
Is that the breid that's burnin'.'* 

I ferlie what ye' re thinkin' on. 
Come, gie the cakes a turnin*. 

Auld Socrates, the gudgie Greek, 

Took wife to mend his trouble ; 
She had a raucle o' a tongue. 

An' made his fashes double. 
Like ither fules, the married life, 

Thinks I, I'll blythely try it ; 
I'll tak' a wife, an' sae I did, 

But a that e'er cam' by it — 

Was, haud the wean ! steer the pat I 
An' mak' a willin' fend o't ; 

But saftly, wife, or by my fegs 
The law will see the end o't 



MY YOWE AN' MY LAMB. 

When I was a lodger in Poverty's lap. 

An' waddled through life wi' a win'-shaven hap. 

The haill o' my haudin an' warldly plack 

Button'd beneath the coat on my back. 

Gentility's laws are sae nicely obeyed, 

Naebody minded the road I gaed; 

But noo, that Tve got a yowe an' a lamb. 

Ilka ane says — '' Guid mornin', Tarn." 



LYRICAL PIECES. 97 

To learning I never made muckle pretence, 

But whiles I stick up for a blinkie o' sense; 

The corn riggs kittle the farmer's e'e — 

The fisherman aye thinks weel o' the sea. 

An' whiles the queer thocht in my noddle gets room, 

That the wee bit saxpence under my thoomb, 

An' added to that, my yowe an' my lamb, 

Ha e something to dae wi' — '' Guid mornin', Tam." 

**Guid mornin Tam;" " Oo, ay, laird, I'm here; 

But hoo is't ye didna ken me last year? 

I've met ye repeatedly doun in the gaet. 

An' thocht ye prood stammack'd an' wonderfu' blate ; 

But, noo, I'm in ferlies to see ye sae free — 

A lairdie to crack wi' the likes o' me ! 

Hech ! wha wad hae thocht that a yowe an' a lamb 

Wad ha'e coft me a laird's — ' Guid mornin', Tam } " 

Last Sunday, as into the kirkie I stapp'd, 
An elder my shouther richt canillie clapp'd, 
Sheuk han's, an' quite solemnly ca'd me his "brither;" 
But he's wrang there — us twa had a different mither. 
An' the minister, too, as he gaed through his prayers, 
Doucely open d the tail o' his e'e — unawares ; 
An' thinkin', nae doot, on my yowe an' my lamb, 
Slyly wink'd me a canny — '' Guid mornin', Tam." 

Then there's Jenny, the widow, doun-bye in the glen, 

Wha's unca ran after by bachelor men ; 

Last winter, when diggin' oot owre the brae scaur. 

My picturesque breeches a' daubit wi' glaur, 

Gif her in the bye-gaun I happen d tae meet — 

She gied me the faur awa side o' the street ; 

But noo — mony thanks to my yowe an' my lamb — 

She cuists me a lovin' — '' Guid mornin', Tam." 

G 



98 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Noo, Jenny, they say's, a rale capital catch, 
An' wad mak', or I'm cheatit, a brag o' a match. 
A sow, a kail-yairdie, an' twa crummie kye 
Are no to be laugh'd at, or spak lichtlie by. 
Sae I think I maun shortly, for guid or for ill, 
Jist whussle my mind in her lug — 'deed, I will, 
The laird, then, o' mair than a yowe an' a lamb 
rU gang in for a double — '' Guid mornin'. Tarn." 



THE FIRESIDE FECHT ; 

Or, A' Aboot Oor Wife's Auld Bonnet. 

As ae nicht roun oor auld lum-heid. 

The wintry win's were blawin', O, 
An' slates an' tiles an' chimla cans 

Uncannily were fa'in', O, 
My fancy gied a kittle loup 

An' chirm'd a w^ee sae thrang on't, O, 
Quo' I, "Guidwife, this stormy win', 

I think I'll mak' a sang on't, O." 



'* A sang," quo' she, an' gowf'd my heid, 

" Ye're never but ye're singin', O ; 
My lugs, as wi' a clash o' bells, 

Wi' rhymes are ever ringin', O. 
Sae mony crowd Parnassus brae. 

The list I think could spare ye, O ; 
An' sometimes when ye daut the muse. 

The wean wad better sair ye, O." 



LYRICAL PIECES. 99 

^'Noo, haud yer tongue, ye tousie jaud. 

Is that the way ye d use me, O ? 
Whilst ithers praise my graphic muse, 

Ye thochtlessly abuse me, O. 
To quate your tongue. Til ban my lyre, 

An' bury e'en the name o't, O ; 
But gin I'm quarreird for the deed. 

Yell ken wha'll stan the blame o't. O." 

'*The blame." quo' she, ''It's unca sma'; 

The blame wad lie upon it, O ; 
But wha's tae blame, I'd like to ken. 

For my auld fashioned bonnet, O ? 
It's nine years oot o' date an' mair, 

An' deil, as I sood say it, O, 
I've oot in braid daylicht to gang. 

An mak' my markets wi' it, O." 

^' Noo, haud ye, Mirr'n, a weeock there. 

An' conscience, dinna spurn it, O ; 
Gin that ye're bonnet's oot o' date, 

Economy says, turn it, O/' 
^' Turn it," quo' she, " ye daupit fule, 

" The auld thing s turn'd already, O." 
'' Aweel, jist turn it back again, 

Ye're no a born leddy, O." 

Wi' that upsprang oor auld guidwife, 

An' seiz'd a stoot kail laidle, O. 
Quo' she, '' Guidman, for what ye said, 

I'll briskly gar ye paidle, O." 
^'Fair play," quo' I, an' grup'd the tangs — 

The kindly fates defend us, O ! 
When by guid chance a neebor wife 

Cam' stappin' in ;to mend us, O. 



LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

Noo, wha wad thocht sae big a stoor 

Had sic a wee beginniiV, O. 
Sometimes a wordie spak in haste 

Brings twenty roun' it spinnin', O. 
We canna guard oor tongues owre weel, 

Or padlock them owre doughty, O — 
A hunder-wecht o' airn chains 

Sood tie them when they're towtie, O. 

'Twas weel for me the neebor wife 

Cam' timely in to chack us, O. 
The deil destroy the laidle sticks 

When wifie's wad attack us, O. 
But for the Muse, I'll her forswear, 

An' ban baith sang an' sonnet, O, 
An' closer stick to daily toil. 

That Mirr'n may get her bonnet, O. 



THE MINISTER KISS'D THE COBBLER^S 
WIFE. 

Hae ye heard o' the wonderfu' tale that's gaun roun* 
The tongue-waggin' gentry o' Kinghorn toun ? 
The like o't was ne'er before heard o' in Fife — 
The minister kiss'd the cobbler's wife. 

It wisna scrimp dune, but baith haill and intack — 
A kgible, tangible, lip-rapping smack; 
Sic doings play '' slap" on the left lug o' hfe, 
A minister kissin' a cobblei's vrife. 



LYRICIAL PIECES. loi 

Auld Watty, they say, has gaen owre to the dram. 
An' mad wi' the thocht o't has drunk himsel' calm ; 
The toun wi' the talk o't is jist bizzin' rife — 
The reverend kiss o' the cobbler's wife. 

Had it been some stray bodie o' common degree-^ 
A lawyer, a laird, or a sinner Hke me — 
It wadna been cuttin' oor lugs like a knife ; 
Och ! a minister cuddlin' a cobbler's wife. 

Did I see it mysel' ? — weel, I didna jist see't, 
But rumour has got it, an a are agree't; 
That the auld preachin' bodie had tuk a daft flyfe, 
An' kiss'd in the by-gaun the cobbler's wife. 

There's some ane, I'll sweer it, wi' up-casted loof, 
Hands fast i' the tail o' their e'e the haill proof; 
'Twill be guid an' the end o't is merely word-strife, 
The kissin' o' Kate, the cobbler's wife. 



TWA-THIRDS FOU. 

(A Scotch Sang wi a blythe beginning an an 
ozure-truc endin .) 

Life's cross roads hae mony bit blinkies o' bliss. 
But few o' them finer or sweeter than this — 
Forgather'd wi' freen'ships lang-stan'in' an' true, 
A' bizzin' an' fizzin' at twa-thirds fou; 
Twa-thirds fou 
Wi' them that we lo'e, 
The tap o' life's toorie is twa-thirds fou. 



I02 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

When differs domestic hae ruffl'd the mind, 
An' snelly misfortunes blaw thick i' the wind^ 
An' oor moral barometer's sunken an' doon, 
It heezes the heartie a mile owre the moon, 

Twa-thirds fou 

Wi' them that we lo'e, 
It lichts us an' brichts us, sweet twa-thirds fou, 

Gae teirt to the miser, a-coontin' his store; 
An' tell't to the bookworm, yellow wi' lore ; 
An' tell the kirk minister, deep in his prayers. 
That the brilliant dissolvent o' life's ravell'd cares 

Is twa-thirds fou 

Wi' them that we lo'e ; 
The blatest grow blythesome when twa-thirds fou. 

But saftly, my chanter; life's stereoscope slides 
Hae seldom gat less than twa opposite sides; 
Sae oot wi' the truth, an' the truth maun be tauld^ 
To speak it I'm doonricht teetotally bauld. 

Blythe twa-thirds fou ! 

Toom purse and thin broo 
Is aften the end o' ye, twa-thirds fou. 



TIBBIE AN' HER WEE DRAP TODDY, 

I sing o' twa, the talk o' many — 
Sic twa, may luck oor fireside sen' aye — 
Twa freens, bricht e'ed an' warm-hearted, 
Wha wadna, hap what like, be parted. 
Like Hielan' folks, an' mountain heather, 
The pair were wond'rous fond o' ither; 
An' gree't jist like ae single bodie — 
Blythe Tibbie an' her cup o' toddy. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 103 

Noo Tibbie, a' her bustliiV lifie, 

Had been a splashin' washer wifie; 

What's mair, Tib ne'er had ance been married, 

But ticht and square her maidship carried. 

The men, she didna care aboot them, 

She better fenn'd, she thocht, without them ; 

Sae, jibed an' jeer'd the wee wing d god, aye, 

An' clung to single bliss — an' toddy. 

Altho' Tib wisna jist teetotal, 
She didna much admire the bottle. 
An' never drank sae awfu' fou that 
Ower mornin' heidaches she wad rue that ; 
But nichtly, when her toils were ended, 
A wee drap a' her fashes mended ; 
An' thus, it faurer spread abroad, aye, 
That Tib was never dry o' toddy. 

Ae nicht, when late, auld Rab the miller. 

In mellow mood, cam' rappin' till her — 

^* 'Od, Tib, lass, hoo's yer heid an' heartie — 

A buxom grip ye are, ma certie ! 

Come, Tib, let's hear your honest swithers 

'Gainst takin' o' a man, like ithers; 

I class it maist peculiar odd, aye. 

That ye sood singly mix yer toddy. 

" Consider, woman, what your loosin'. 

By thus persistently refusin' 

Sic chiels as me, whase weekly wage, aye, 

Wad haud ye in as snug a cage, aye, 

As ever lintie sat an' cheep'd in, 

Or ootside sparrow hungry peep'd in. 

Fling up your tub, your suds, an' soda, 

An' share wi' me your e'enin' toddy. 



104 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

Tib naething spak', but sat and thocht on't, 
An' swat hersel', sae much she wrocht on't. 
The bare thocht o' an auld man wooer 
Like stoun's o' pain gaed through and through hen 
At last, wi' leers an' sly winks many, 
She whisper'd in his lug fou' cannie — 
*' Gang hame, across the bog, auld bodie, 
There's mair than you wad share my toddy." 



BOTHWELL BRIG. 



O the sun shines bricht on bonnie Bothwellhaugh, 

An' the birds chant the green woods amang; 
But the men o' the Covenant are scatter'd an' awa', 

Whase Bible- worship was their only wrang. 
The glens an' the valleys shall echo never mair 

The hoarse trooper's shout an' battle clang, 
For silent noo for aye is the hillman's prayer, 

An' the voices that gaed up to God in sang. 

Dow^n chasms deep an' dread, by mighty thunder split' 

Where roars the everlastin' mountain flood, 
On the forehead o' the rocks their deathless names 
are wTit, 

In characters o' fire an' o' blood. 
An' high amang the clouds, on the taps o' the hills. 

Where the snaw^s an' win's o' winter rudely drave, 
A refuge they sought frae a tyranny o' ills, 

An' fand there a heaven an' a grave. 

Though the airm o' the Lord is slow to rise in wrath, 

Yet vengeance, He says, will I keep ; 
An' woe betide the hands that put the saints to death 

On Bothwellhaugh an' Aird's moss wha sleep. 



LYRICAL PIECES. 



O purple ran the heath on Bothwell's bluidy day, 
An' lang, lang gleam'd red in rain an' sun ; 

But the earth an' the skies, frae Clyde bank to brae, 
Shall witness to the slaughter that day done. 



BLIGHTED LOVE. 

O, wha can heal the heart o' love, 

That bleeds in sad despair ? 
Can kindly words or tears remove 

The thorn that rankles there ? 
O, weary, weary fa' the hours 

That's gi'en to grievin's sair, 
An' joyless a' things to the heart, 

That aye maun sorrow wear. 

Ah, gentle Clyde, thy tender stream 

Was once beloved by me ; 
But now thou flow'st a voiceless dream, 

A sad, sweet memorie. 
I canna bear to see thee shine, 

Nor hear thy waters flow ; 
Thou mind'st me o' the dear sweet time, 

Three harvest moons ago. 

The lambkins on the simmer lea, 

The linties on the spray, 
Are happy in their little loves. 

Through a' the sunny day. 
But I maun w^andersad my lane. 

An' dree a weary load, 
Till death shall kindly rest my heid, 

Beneath the daisied sod. 



io6 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 

So sang a maid in mournfu' strains, 

While fell the blindin' tears, 
Unconscious that the tender plaint, 

Was heard by mortal ears. 
The spring had fleck'd the lea wi' floo'rs^ 

While thus she wail'd an' wept, 
But ere the autumn days were dune, 

In death's cauld airms she slept. 




SONNETS. 107 



SONNETS. 



M I L T O N. 



" Much yet remains to do ; 

Peace hath her victories not less reno^^^led than war.*' 



Milton ! of men the noblest and the best ; 

Of song-crown'd souls the most divinely-dower d, 

Whose faith in God shone like a lamp high-tower'd,. 
Light-giving in an age of dark unrest. 
I think of thee right glad and often, lest 

The faith that is within me should die out, 

And the vast inciihis of eyeless doubt 
Lodge in my soul an uninvited guest. 

For surely in this faithless age we need 
Remembrance of thy grand strong life to wed 
Our souls to holy duty, that the dead 

And barren soil thereof may take the seed 
Of nobler life, and find diviner growth 
In the broad fields of thought and action both. 



io8 LILTS ON THE DORIC LYRE. 

MAZZINI. 

A column'd power has fallen to the ground, 
A mighty glory perish'd from the skies, 
The splendour of whose soul-deeds smote the eyes, 

And shook the world with immortal sound. 

Mazzini ! exil'd patriot ! uncrowm'd 
Up-builder of the liberties of man, 
And fearless leader of the thankless van : 

In thee Italia, and the world, found 

Their soul-ideal — stainless, massive, grand : 

The scroll of thy long life-work — bright and broad — 
Bears the recorded signature of God, 
Traced by a lightning-flashing, angel-hand ; 

Pillow'd upon thy Country's weeping breast. 

Return, immortal hero, to thy rest. 



DAVID GRAY.-^ 



A song unsung, a fragrant flower unblown, 
A morning sunbeam clouded ere the noon, 
A breath of brilliant music silenced soon ; 

Such tearful loss in thee, alas ! we own, 

O rich-voiced singer, making thy sweet moan 
On the immortal l3^re-strings of the heart. 

The pages of thy soul-birth'd song o'erblown 
With the sweet fruits of early-blossom'd art. 



* David Gray, a native of Kirkintilloch, and a young man of rare 
lyrical faculty, died there in his twenty-fourth year. The productions of 
his early muse are characterised by grace rather than strength, but there 
is enough of promise in the book to warrant his accomplished biographer 
— Mr James Hedderwick — in forecasting the youthful poet a brilliant 
future, had he been permitted to enjoy maturity of years, 



SONNETS 109 

AH that is bright and beautiful and fair, 

Sea, skies, green woods, white snows, sun-glancing^ 
streams, 

Were voiced and imaged in thy tender dreams, 
Clear- worded, as the bright and ambient air; 

And on thy soul's fair mirror, the sweet grace 

Of all things lovely held a shining place. 



JAMES LITTLE.^ 



He came among us, pouring from his lips 
The burning music of an earnest soul, 
That builds on hope, and faints not till life's whole 

Is curtain d o'er with death's sublime eclipse. 

In duty strong, in truth heroical, 

He walked the earth a fameless son of song ; 
A rude wild flower, in odorous feeling strong, 

Coarse in the leaf, yet beautiful withal. 

Sweet was bis lyre when love's soft south wind blew 
Among the chords, and low reprisals brought, 

And strong-tongued when the gusts of passion threw 
His soul into the frenzy of high thought. 

I mourn his end, yet hope is not denied. 

For Mercy clung to God when hapless Little died. 



* James Little, author of a meritorious volume, entitled '* Sparks 
from Nature's Fire," was a working shoemaker in the Calton. His 
father was, through his maternal grandmother, a claimant for the title 
and estate of the last Marquis of Annandale. He was eight years in 
the military service, and twice visited America— once in a private capa- 
city, and once under his country's colours. His verses are characterised 
by pith and manly sense, but it is painful to know that he latterly ac- 
quired habits of dissipation, and died by his own hand — Feb. 1865. 



LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 



TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY. 

Poets have sung in many a pleasing strain, 
The bHss of country hfe, as all in all, 
And much I love at evening to recall 

Their well-rhymed memories of field and plain. 

I question not th' apparent loss or gain, 
The seeming virtue felt or only feigned ; 
A dweller in the City — narrow-laned ; 

I only know that in my shaken brain 

The roar of her vast life makes mightier moan, 

And with a sense of deeper meaning fills, 
Than Ocean, breaking on her bed of stone. 

Or bolted thunder heard among the hills ; 

And grandlier breathe I where my senses greet 
The throb of hearts, and myriad fall of feet. 



BANNOCKBURN. 



War is not less a blessing than a curse ; 

The virtue of it lives — the evil dies ; 
Great battle-fields doth evermore imburse 

Earth with the seeds of her best liberties ; 

The issues of unfolding prophecies 
Leap into being with the shock and shout 
Of mighty battle, and red-hoof 'd from out 

Her loins spring immortal destinies. 
Thus reasoned I, as from the castle crag 

Of grey old Stirling look'd I down upon 
The carse of Bannockburn — the battle-brag 

Of Scotland, hearing not the anguished moan 
Of her slain dead, but only seeing there 
A mighty answer to a nation's prayer. 



SONNETS. Ill 



THE HILLS— A STUDY. 

The city sinks behind me, and before, 
The mighty hills in endless line arise, 
And vail their tawny foreheads 'mid the skies, 

In earth firm-rooted, steadfast evermore. 

Heaven leans upon their summits, and the roar 
Of ocean old is round their giant base ; 
Their breasts enfold earth's fires; the brown haze 

Of buried ages wraps them o'er and o'er. 
O that to my unstable soul was lent 

The strength and calm that to yon hills belong 
Their inspirations with my purpose blent. 

That naught less mighty, less immensely strong, 
Might nerve me to the high accomplishment 
Of some immortal, world-shaking song. 



UNRECORDED HEROISM. 

Earth's mighty heroes and prophetic sages — 
The master-souls who king it o'er the throng — 
Are, evermore, devoutly shrin'd in song, 

To be a theme of worship for all ages ; 

And right it is that the immortal pages 
Of earth's historic record should be graced 

With all that worship of the heart engages — 
With all that's lovely in this moral waste. 

But yet, among us, noble deeds are done, 
Within the quiet walks of daily duty. 
That never blossom into open beauty. 

But court the shade, unmindful of the sun ; 

Whose seeds would find, if planted deep and strong, 
Immortal rootas^e in the fields of sone. 



112 LILTS OX THE DORIC LYRE. 



ANTICIPATORY. 
I. 

I long'd to live upon the breath of fame, 
To feast upon her sweets without alloy ; 

And years went round and recognition came, 
But with it cam.e not hope, nor peace, nor joy — 

The fire of thought still burn'd within my brain ; 
A sea of discontent within my soul 
Rag d wide and limitless, without control ; 

And still existence beat a pulse of pahi. 

The sea, the sky, the hills, the russet-plain 
Were round about me, and I sought to trace 
The lineaments of God, and learn his grace, 

In Nature's mystic temple ; but the rain 

That fell from heaven — the wind that shook the tree 

Spoke with no voice oracular to me. 

II. 

Then said I to my soul, "Dear soul, full surely 

Thy erring reason hath miscarried thee ; 

God dwells not in the land, the sky, the sea ; 
But rather in the heart he dwelleth purely. 

Where'er a deed of charity is done, 
Where'er a Avord of holy truth is spoken, 
Where'er a pray'r is utter'd as a token 

Of faith in God, that moment God is won. 
Choose then, my soul, the wisdom that relieth 

On the necessity of praise and prayer ; 

Nor further invocate the dreamless air ; 
No voice of revelation it supplieth. 

In Christ, all mystery is undisguis'd. 

In Christ, the abstract God is humaniz'd." 



William Mtmro, Printer^ 8 1 Virginia Street, Glasgozi', 



p. 



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